Letting Go

Vacation was perfect.  We went to one of those all inclusive places.  They slip a bracelet around you wrist and a world opens up.  The pool.  The beach.  Bars and restaurants.  I lounged by the pool and walked in the sand.  I ate far too much and actually slept late into the morning.  The staff was as kind and courteous as could be.  The kids were almost all smiles

Perfect

But as everything in life, even perfection has to end.  We packed up our bags, loaded onto the plane, and taxied back home.  That evening sitting in bed, I contemplated the little string bracelet that had been my passport  to such thrilling adventures.  My vacation was over but for some reason I couldn't bare to cut the cord.  I couldn't remove the bracelet.

Now the edges had become frayed and the color had worn from the string.  My skin didn't take too kindly to the material, and a small itchy rash had started to form.  My mind new that this bracelet was no longer my vacation.  It was no longer my happiness.  It was a small vestige of that which had once been.  A physical, tangible reminder of the ephemeral.

As the days grew long, and I threw myself head first into reintegrating into my busy life, I pined for the simplicity and satisfaction that that little piece of jewelry signified.  It was no longer the thing of my desire but a wisp, a memory.  It was my vacation on life support; gasping and sputtering and just barley alive.

And I clung to it during sleepless nights and overbearing days.  My wrist became fiery red and itchiness turned to pain.  Whenever things were going badly, I looked down hopefully at my wrist wishing to recreate a moment, a small taste of what was gone.

Eventually the pain got bad enough and I propped my arm belly up on the counter.  I grabbed a knife and  pressed the dull side to my wrist resting just below the band.  Then I pushed up quickly.

The string exhaled, splayed, and fell lifelessly onto the counter.  In an instant my vacation, a living/breathing thing, transitioned from a palpable finite object to a memory.

The rash cleared over the next few weeks, but I often caught myself looking down at my wrist.  Always half expecting to see the band still there.  For just a little longer.

Afraid of what it would mean to hold on.

Afraid of what it would mean to let go.