I remember the day you cried on my shoulder and said to me, “Life is so hard. And my heart is too heavy. I don’t want to care anymore.” All I could do was apologize on behalf of the rest of the world. The sudden weight broke my shoulders. But I endured the pain because, I swear, I was never as broken as your spirit was that night.
I didn’t know how to explain that the heavier the heart, the more immune it would be to wind and turbulence. And the better your heart can skip on the water, the farther you can send it; not away from you, but towards others. I didn’t know how to explain that when I think of skipping stones, I think of mosquito bitten legs while sitting outside eating a poorly cooked BBQ with love in it; that I think of melted ice cream running down my arm, sticky and sugary sweet as it leaves a trail of Mint Chocolate Chip; that I think of Barbie kites flying so high, I believed that Barbie would’ve settled down on the Moon and fallen in love with a visiting Martian.
I didn’t know how to explain that when your heart finally stops skipping to rest at the bottom of the river, you’ll see everything; that when you’re in the middle of a body of water, you won’t be disturbed; that when the soft moss of the Earth reclaims you, you will have returned home.
I didn’t know how to say any of this to you. So I kept apologizing until your heart became too heavy to skip.
I am full with regret.