Endings.
It’s spring,
why on earth am I obsessed with endings these days?
Spring is the time of birth, of beginnings.
This is the time of sundresses and bulging panted boys unwilling to write on chalkboards.
It must have something to do with aging I guess. No longer do the long sunny days with a fair breeze insist that I go play. Instead, the yard has been getting my attention. I’ve even noticed that I’m yelling at clouds more and more often.
I think I’m afraid to leave the house.
I’m afraid to leave the house because I don’t know when I’ll make it home.
I like being home. What if being away doesn’t end?
I've become acutely aware of how difficult endings are.
They are neither as easy nor as satisfying as we’d like.
And ending well?
That’s a practice.
How many conversations do you end cleanly?
How often do you find yourself adding one more thing that you just had to say?
I often find myself grunt-groan-apologizing-racing-scratching to not let a conversation end. A conversation ending is a bit of …
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