The Leaving

I leave.

A lot. Walk out, slam doors, peel out, lose it, come back.

There are two different to leave someone. You can emulate my father, angry as a young man, yelling until his voice is raw. And then with a final explosion, like a flame reaching a gs pump,

boom.

Goodbye.

And then a flurry of slammed doors, pounding feet down wooden hallways, swiping car keys and leaving a silence falling like grey ash sinking in after an atomic bomb.

The coming back is often silent, treading over ruins while whispering apologies so as not to disturb.

The second leaving is not an explosion. It is a match snuffed out, a distraught creature disappearing into itself, into a wide open space of away, away, away.

It is harder to choose the second leaving, to not have a final word in it all, but it is better this way.

To come back is to give life to an apparition, a ghost of the creature you abandoned in the leaving.

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