Pumice stone

There are many facets to relationships. Within each facet are multiple nooks and crannies. I’ve already shined the tarnished appearance of my family enough to realize that relation by blood isn’t super enough to glue us together. As I grew older I discovered that people trickle like sand through the palm of life. There are a few residual grains, and those are the ones I treasure. Thus far, I’ve been able to peg the people whose presence will remain regardless of time or distance. Using that as the filter for my anger I tend to assign people to categories. If I pre-assign them then it will hurt less when they disappear.

However, sometimes I’m wrong. It still hurts, but I’ve become accustomed to that hurt; enough that I don’t respond as violently as I did, physically, or emotionally. Before I would do everything possible to share my hurt with the accused party. When they couldn’t, or wouldn’t acknowledge their actions I’d return their insult in kind. When that failed to squeeze empathy from their pustule I would sulk into some corner of the world to lick and bandage my wounds. There I’d wait for the scab to form. Now, when someone slips from one facet to another I handle it much better. Perhaps it’s age, or time, but I think effort is the culprit. I’m able to recognize that not all relationships turn out as expected and move on. I may call, or write, but when my affections are unreciprocated I medicate by moving on. When I left Chicago several relationships followed. I trust that they will follow me wherever I go.

When I left Pennsylvania most recently the relationships I assumed would survive the triage didn’t. Some did, and my love for those parties continues to grow. For those that didn’t I’m still sketching my plan of action. I’m waiting for the hurt to pass and logic to snuggle in. I’m hurt because people have been lost, and I feel discarded. But, if I’m to make room for the new I have to pumice away that hurt and recognize my new surface. I don’t know what I’ll do with their memories. I don’t enjoy the retelling, but their impossible to forget. … How will I cope most effectively with the knowledge that some people aren’t as dependable as I’d first imagined?