MY left foot

My left foot is still his. It still stands in this place holding a space for him that should be vacant. It should be. It isn’t. My much wiser foot on the right is moving onward, had moved upward. But I am anchored by the lead in my left foot. Sometimes I think I can pull myself up and away from that spot where he left me standing, literally holding the bag, the baby, the bills, and just left. He thinks we have it so much easier here while he’s away. We don’t. I would give anything to be able to let go, or to hold on with confidence that holding on in this place would not leave me here alone again in the future. Wishing for one to return to me improved, no longer a broken man. My left foot is still his. It still stands in this place holding a space for him that should be vacant. It should be. It isn’t. My much wiser foot on the right is moving onward, had moved upward. But I am anchored by the lead in my left foot. Sometimes I think I can pull myself up and away from that spot where he left me standing, literally holding the bag, the baby, the bills, and just left. He thinks we have it so much easier here while he’s away. We don’t. I would give anything to be able to let go, or to hold on with confidence that holding on in this place would not leave me here alone again in the future. Wishing for one to return to me improved, no longer a broken man. I have considered speaking to my stubborn left foot- trying to reason with it, like you know, this isn’t good for you. But it holds steadfast to the idea of a man. I know my right foot flails in anger at the left. But the still small voice on the left tells me that my iron foot planted so firmly is holding on for something greater than the man. For the family that man is part of. For the love that man represents. Because we need him to open the pickle jars, and organize the pantry, and to laugh with. To fee free with. We need his warmth. His amber colored eyes, and colorful skin, and his gentle hand clasped in mine. My right foot is righteously indignant here. Angry and hurt and betrayed. Closed off. And moving on. My not so still small voice on the right shouts out loud for progress, for EVOLUTION of the spirit, soul, and body… it works, it keeps running place in time with a different drum than its counterpart. What does someone whose head and heart aren’t in sync do? Where do I go? What should I choose? I have considered speaking to my stubborn left foot- trying to reason with it, like you know, this isn’t good for you. But it holds steadfast to the idea of a man. I know my right foot flails in anger at the left. But the still small voice on the left tells me that my iron foot planted so firmly is holding on for something greater than the man. For the family that man is part of. For the love that man represents. Because we need him to open the pickle jars, and organize the pantry, and to laugh with. To feel free with. We need his warmth. His amber colored eyes, and colorful skin, and his gentle hand clasped in mine. My right foot is righteously indignant here. Angry and hurt and betrayed. Closed off. And moving on. My not so still small voice on the right shouts out loud for progress, for EVOLUTION of the spirit, soul, and body… it works, it keeps running place in time with a different drum than its counterpart. But, we carry on my left foot and I, in earnest- hoping when the time comes we will be free to live our life by our own design- and hope for a drum that can march in time, one with the other, without it,  or the other.

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