Saying goodbye is one of the hardest things to do.
It’s letting go and trusting that it won’t be the last time
Often goodbyes are not forever, it’s an ending sure, but not a finalization.
It’s the words you say at the end of a night out, but it carries the promise of future plans
It’s a temporary statement, ‘goodbye,’ in a perfect world is never really ‘goodbye’
But this isn’t a perfect world and you decided to make our goodbye permanent.
You came to terms with it, you knew it was your final goodbye, but what about me?
I wasn’t ready to say goodbye. I was ready for the plans, the promises made.
I was ready to see your face at school, not on the news.
I was ready to go prom dress shopping with you, not funeral dress shopping.
I wasn’t ready for the numbness, the denial, the hope that it wasn’t goodbye.
I wasn’t ready to say goodbye, but for some reason you hurt so much you were.
I’m not ready to say goodbye, even though I know you said it for me.
About the Creator
Emily Partello
Hello! I'm 18 and currently living and working in the UK for my gap year! I mostly write fiction, but occasionally poetry as evident by my first post. I might try some non-fiction, but who knows, let see where this goes :)
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Peaceful
The sun is shining brightly, refracting off the green-brown waves of the river in a blinding fashion. The wind is blowing softly, causing the halyards to clang loudly against the mast, the flag to flap absentmindedly, and my hair to shift ever so slightly around my relaxed face. The wind carries several strange, yet familiar and comforting scents; the sharp, piercing smell of the gasoline and diesel at the fueling station and the greasy stench coming from the vents behind the kitchen at the clubhouse that make my stomach rumble in anticipation. The wind carries other things too, not just scents and feelings, but comforting sounds as well. Familiar sounds like the elderly couple a few boats down, quietly conversing, their affection for each other easily distinguishable in their tones, and the occasional metallic clang or wooden bang coming from the repair shop a few hundred meters away. The water sloshes gently against the side of the boat, flowing with the current of the harbor and excited by the passing boats. This also causes the boat itself to rock and the rubber bumpers protecting the sides to squeak quietly. Mom is moving around below, humming quietly to herself, the sounds of the old wooden cabinets and drawers occasionally creaking open and closed. I feel relaxed here. But when we take the boat out, gliding gracefully down the river and being pulled along by the wind like an eager dog pulling its owner towards the park; I feel truly at peace. Under sail, I enjoy the feeling of fighting against the wind to rapidly pull the sails into the correct position and listening to the click-clack of the winches, as they’re cranked, the plastic casing on the lever cracked from years of use. Here, for a period of time, I’m not me anymore. I’m not the friendly fitting room attendant at Winner’s or a bubbly grade 12 student. I just am. It’s my favourite place to just… exist, without the categories of everyday life.
By Emily Partello7 years ago in Poets
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