The art of letting go…

I couldn’t let go of it. The piece of paper shuffled between my hands. It had been years; I had lost the memory of the emotion too when I first received that paper. I had studied for days; I had allured the subject through the nights. I did not know why I had to achieve it; everyone seemed to be working hard for the same, and I guessed it was my duty to do that too. I enjoyed learning and becoming a knowledgeable person. I achieved it at last. But it has no use now. As I hold a fourth-grade test paper, I find it hard to let go of it.

I don’t play with them now. They sit by the bedside table in my room because that is where my mother kept them. They have been there ever since. Knocked down often when I clumsily look for my other things on the table, useful things. I remember when I first saw them on the shelf of a gift shop; I knew I wanted them; I knew how I would convince my father to buy them for me. I had schemed it all in my mind. I threw a fit at night and did not eat properly. I knew it would work, and it did. I remember the day Papa brought that Barbie house. I squealed and danced around the house. I was content for days. I made food from the utensils that came with them in their home, tucked them to sleep at night, and made friends with them. Then I forgot about it. Now that I look at them, they have become weary, as if they have grown old with me. I know they are going to be here tomorrow too. Mostly because I’ll forget to throw them out, at least that’s what I tell my mother. But because I find it hard to let go of it.

I count the days. I don’t count in years; it seems too serious for no reason. Three years ago, they told me I would never see you again. But days are better because there are more days I’ve known you compared to the days since I last saw you. It’s a good life; you prepare yourself for some things, yet you are utterly unprepared when those things happen for real. You cannot have all the conversations with a person before they go. Mainly because you never think about them leaving you and because I didn’t do what I told you I would in the future. The present holds something entirely different from what I told you. It certainly didn’t comply with our conversations. I wish I could tell you what I want for myself in the future. I’d be happy if it didn’t work out again, only if I had a chance to tell you what I did instead. I remember you every day, primarily because I find it hard to let go of it.

I know I’ll never master the art of letting go because I’ll always fail for your sake. This might not be new because, then again, I’ve been failing it since the day I decided to let go of you. Unintentionally, every day I try to let go, little by little, but then I’ll see you on some corner of the road, and I’ve never been so enthralled to fail. You stay somewhere in the tiniest part of my heart, and when I try to claw you out, I end up pushing you in. I know I won’t be able to let you go just yet; I know I am not going to be brave enough to let go of a lot of things just yet. But I know now that I’m brave enough to carry them along with me, without any sense of guilt. Letting go is hard, mostly because I find it hard to let go of it.