On up the road

(originally written 11/08/06)

I'd been talking to Debra a couple of days recently. She'd meet me on the front porch or during a break at work. It wasn't a haunting or a hallucination. She was just there. Whenever I got really lonely, she'd be there.

Monday, though, when we were driving, she had something to tell me. She had to go.

Why, I asked.

I've got things to do, and so do you. You can't get on with your life and have me here. You have to let me go.

What if I want to talk to you?

You can talk to me any time you want, she said. And I'll come by and see you sometimes. I can't just be here all the time. You have to let me go.

I didn't want to. We drove a little farther. She let the subject drop for a minute or two. Then I stopped at a stoplight.

I'm going to get out here, she said.

Will I see you again?

Of course you will, someday, she said. On up the road.

I love you, I told her.

I love you too, sweetie.

She got out of the car and headed up the road. And I was alone.

Maybe this is acceptance. Maybe it's a mind game. Maybe it's just a metaphor. But she's gone, and I must deal with it.

And I must keep heading up the road. She's waiting.