Lessons in Honesty

My phone buzzes twice; I pull it out of my pocket. Breath held as I long-await a response of no significance and too much significance, with too much space in the between. "Hey I love you," the screen reads. Tears well up and threaten to spill. Amid these strangers and their casual conversations.

"It must be more than an interest," he comments, "you must have a devotion." I think of the years wrapped up in, held by, rocked by, steadied by this quiet love. This quiet love that holds my hand and leads the way when all I see is the chaos of my life swirling, when I close my eyes and wait to collapse. Should I, I should, shout this from the mountain tops.? Or at least, these days, to myself in a strong whisper: I love I want I care I am devoted. Honest declaration. If only in a strong whisper. Begin here.

After years, this is, perhaps, the only place I can begin. This is, perhaps, the safest place to begin.

It had been lifetimes since cologne-crushed tears fell. Burning, hot and acidic. A litmus test that would read: eyes diverted and hands dropped, the heart that has clawed its way into the throat plummets - falls into vast empty space.

To be shocked by these acid tears, this unexpected litmus test result - I have been eagerly dishonest with myself. A self-preservation method with an acidity level that eats away faster than realized. I didn't realize. Any of it.

She, too many miles away, practiced in letting me cry until the red rash appears on the tops of my cheeks and supporting my weight and my head on her shoulder, feels just that - too many miles away. A seasoned expert on me, she knows it is coming before I do. She holds my honesty when I am not strong enough to carry it.

I'll announce in a strong whisper to an empty room that I am building a career in a field I love. I love I want I care I am devoted. Honestly. Tangled or purposefully intertwined, the rest I cannot claim in a whisper to an empty room. I'm drowning in the divide between no significance and too much significance, filled with my own tears, into which I tripped and fell because I wasn't paying close enough attention. To my heart as it squeezed up and out of my rib cage trying to get to his. To how high it had climbed. To how far down of a drop it faced.

"Hey I love you," she texted me because she knew and she knows. And now, at least I know.  All of it.