Standing at the Mailbox
I walked away last night. Stood at the front door for ten minutes to make my impulse decision less impulsive.
It has been fifteen hours. I've made it as far as the mailbox.
~
I bought new pens, the kind that ooze out ink in a black wave and often smudge. I started crossing off names a month ago.

Bob: Stagnant.
Earl:Irreparable.
Las:Platonic.
T.:Unrealistic.
Sicily:Involved.

Added one a week ago, crossed it off without a week incubation.

Bert:Supercilious.

Left one name, until fifteen hours and thirty seven minutes ago. Which brings me back to standing at the mailbox.
~
I hesitate, wondering how far along I will be before the long awaited footsteps sound behind me. Will they be fast paced? Slow and steady? Will they come at all? I linger at the mailbox, hoping I won't have to go on. Knowing I will.
Today, my goal is the street curb. Today my goal is to face forward. Today, my goal is to survive.
~
I threw my pen that oozed ink and enjoyed smudging on my wrists across the room before I could cross the last name out. It sits, untouched. Perhaps one day I can circle and star it and doodle little hearts next to it in the margin. For now, I'll leave it in the mailbox, while I take another step.

Hope.