Attachment

I miss you.

Maybe we've known each other since we were girls, huddled on a sleepover, before the complications of boys and distance sent us away. When we could whisper a secret and know that it was true because we were there for each other every day. We might have swam in the salty warm Gulf of Mexico all day, our hair messy, skin kissed with sun. Flirted with inappropriate boys, sipped sodas without guilt. I miss the ocean, the beach. But I really miss sitting on it with you.

Maybe we met later, after marriage, when jobs and life took us far from family, when the second family of that life was as close. When we laughed over glasses of wine and long nights out in a town busy with traffic, awash with brightly lit sky-scrapers, feeling glamorous. Dressed up in party clothes with sequins, knowing that you hold tightly what you most value.

© 1000words | Dreamstime.com - Miss You Written In Sand Photo.

I miss knowing everything-- what you had for lunch yesterday because I was there with you, sneaking a break in between studying, or a shift at the place we worked. We were sure of ourselves, too sure, too unheartbroken.

I miss being that sure. 

Maybe we've never actually met-- I miss you too. I might even miss you the most. Sometimes, I look at the faces of people going by in cars and I think "wait-- do I know you? Are you someone I miss too?" And the answer is yes. I miss you too. What stories would we have told each other? What dramas would we have laughed over, cried over? Do you like the color red, too? Is summer too hot but also the best, like when we were kids, because there's nothing to really do? I miss knowing that.

Maybe we spent ten years every other night meeting up, going to dinner, sharing stupid jokes about broccoli and poodles and tights. Maybe I long to cook you enchiladas, drink icy margaritas on my back patio, a patio covered in lovely green grape vines, the stars at night big and bright. I miss being there again. But mostly, I still miss you.

Maybe we live in the same town, used to go on playdates, carry diapers in purses, sneak one (okay, maybe two) chicken nuggets on the side of our mom-approved salad. Time, practices, different schedules might have made it so that we can't get together except on certain party days. But I miss knowing that certainty of a park-date, of how tired you are too. Miss smiling across the gym. Miss lunch with too many kids to count making the cashier roll her eyes at the group.

Sometimes, the weight of all the people I want to just get to know, to just chat about our day, to consider my good friend, gets so heavy that it makes me think up songs in the middle of the night, write poems, tell stories, eat too much chocolate, drink too much red wine.

I'm too sensitive, too attached. Not a good "detached" meditator on the power of letting go. I don't let go. I hold on, tightly. Maybe too tightly, maybe not.

I'm a hermit; I'm an introvert. I don't like going out to loud clubs anymore so much (although I will admit I miss the fun of anticipation of that, too, because I'm apparently insane today.) But I do miss everyone, and I long to drag everyone here, with me, to just-- share. To share fun, to share tears, to share great meals. (Maybe even share the chocolate, although, on second though, you should bring your own.)

I just-- miss you. I miss you all. Consider yourself longed for, and loved.