Happy birthday to you.

Dear FutureMe, It used to be his birthday, before it became another Sunday. Yesterday welcomed another sharp paring of love with nowhere to go. I yearned to be there, to wish him a happy birthday. In fact, everything lined up in a way that would’ve been perfect for me to spend at least two days down there. Instead, I return to my bed. I wrestle with my decision against writing a text, but I have decided to lean into the truth that the greatest gift I can give him, is my absence. If he wanted to remove me from his life, what more can I do than say “yes. I will go.” Over and over, I pull myself away from hope. I allow my feet to cross over the ending and I embrace the pain that has led me here. Yesterday I picked up his aged gift- the sweater I had begun to knit months ago, pulled at the purls until they knew nothing of the past, and began again. There are tens of ways to begin, though only one that feels like home. One that is loose, unattached and reckless. I knit on the round this time, letting markers of progress pass away. I want to be lost in the never ending and give myself away to thought. With every stitch cast on, with every movement of the needle, the tangible traveling of the yarn, I feel a staggered relief. I am my own. This is my own. Yet I am numbed to a callous dance with the familiar. I am still unhappy. As I carry on, the asperity of my ribs begins to show, and my hands find themselves in familiar knots. I have decided that this is the struggle I choose to pull through. I mark the frayed hems and let myself unravel. He still has my hat. I have his sweater. A pair of socks. A punch-drunk meal card. A batch of CDs in his car (I want those back). I let myself watch the Instagram story and wait to feel something. I watch it again. No new wave of pain. Maybe this is me moving on. Or maybe I’ve been here before, outside, waiting to be let in. Today I continue to knit.