The date says February 17, but it is still the 16th in my mind.
Write about regret.
Regret is the color of a dying rose. The thing that created beauty in your life no longer has the capability to beautify. It glares out from the wall as a blackened red stain. It speaks and says, “I was.”
Like chipped paint, it’s a story of yesterday, a story of ending. Its taste is the bitterness of what could’ve been, and wasn’t. Its sound is a ripping and a tearing, or a crunch, a halt, a four-car wreck. It’s a wrong step and a twisted ankle, a bruised leg, a crushed bone–however small, it’s still true, merciless pain. It’s staying in one place, feeling the sunlight turn to cold shadow with the passing of the sun, hoping and despairing of hope.
Turning away from regret is crossing the border from shadow to light, but moving your head is the growing impossibility. Regret is immobilizing, fixing your eyes fast on behind and getting lost in the shade, trying to mentally visualize what you know was there in daylight, and must be there at night, but for you the scenery has changed.
It takes a person’s hand to turn you away. Sometimes many hands. It takes a loving touch, a guiding light. An irrepressible glow of future happiness, a possibility.
It takes a glint of sparkle off a ring to forget what never was and see what is and can be. It takes patience, understanding, another person’s love, a deeper river than the Snake. It takes an absence, a leaving, and most of all, time. Heal.