#howtosaygoodbye

Someday I will teach my children how to say goodbye. I will show them there is no right time, no comfortable time, no easy time to say it.But there comes a time when goodbye is the only word left. When language melts beyond the point of reconstruction. When the words once spoken curl around your neck like a noose. When you cough and spatter blood against the hand print mosaics, stuck above your bed, where you two once lay, placing traces of thumb prints on each other's decaying skin and above you like constellations on the white, white walls of your room. I will tell them, whispering it in their ears like a prayer—My children When you say goodbye the words will gurgle in your throat, painfully, slowly, endlessly dripping out like oil. You will muster a g, potentially an o. The words will not be as powerful as you expected.They will sound empty and hallow, like the glass vase you knocked over as a child. I remember, you dove to your knees, trying to catch the shards that sliced open your hands, left drops of crimson like breadcrumbs to guide you home.You gave up eventually, remember that. You asked why things so easily shattered. Why finger tips wound together could slip apart with the faintest traces of perspiration. As you say goodbye, you will feel as though the room is filled with shattering glass and your hands will itch to reach for them. You will try and reach for the broken piece that still glows faintly in the light. Do not let your hands move. Do not let your shoulders slacken. Speak for the life you feel burning inside of you. The glow of potential, the gentle embers that rustle around your blood stream. Wake up, my children. When you say goodbye, think of me. You will always have someone to say hello to afterwards.