When We Let Go

by Rochelle B. Weinstein

And I wonder why the ones who need love the most are so difficult to give it to.

want to be able to give him this, but I can’t. I squeeze his hand back. It’s frailer than I remembered, and though I’m happy to see the farm prosper and grow, it means he’s been changing, too, and the years I’ve missed deeply sadden me. “Never mind all that,” he finally says.

Sometimes the things people don’t say hurt worse than the things they do. It’s just the way of grief and loss. People think they’re doing you a favor by avoiding the tougher subjects, but the silence only makes the absence bigger, deafening.

That’s what happens to people when they visit the mountains, ground themselves in the earth. Simplicity spreads through the limbs, like stems bending in the wind, flowers scattering their petals.

Time, I’ve learned, is a malleable concept. Time passes. Time flies. Time heals. Memories lie dormant and grab you when you least expect it. That’s what being here does.

“Being strong . . . it doesn’t always mean being tough. It means letting those terrible feelings in, not pushing them away. It’s letting yourself feel all of it.”

“Mistakes don’t make you a bad person, Avery. They make you complex and human. Own them. Or the only person you hurt is you.”

holding on to those you’ve lost means you’re living in the past. And if you’re living in the past, you’re not really living.