The Wounded Animal

I go to the place we used to go.  Everyone is afraid to look me in the eye, for fear of what a wounded animal might do.  I try to regain my old footing, and assert myself among these people.  These people.  They used to be our people.  This place.  It used to be our place.  My assertions are met with responses that vary but always have a softening voice and a rising tone.  It is the sound of pity.  I retreat.

I know that you find it hard to have an honest conversation these days.  I know that these places where we lived, loved, and grew together plague you too.  What to do with these people and places Lindsay?  I don’t know.

I do know that we will carry this for a very long time, but it was our decision to make.  It was not the product of the places we found ourselves, no matter how arduous they might have seemed.  And it was not the product of these people, no matter what convincing they did or didn’t do.  So hopefully these places will soften with time, wearing down their sharp and precise edges.  And I hope that sometime soon that these will meet us where we are, not where we used to be.


Authored by Andy Munas

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