Untitled.

Crushed under the weight of empty boxes.
Tears. Borrowed from the ocean. Birthed by the moon.

A sign hangs over the presents.
Happy in orange, birthday in blue, Drew in green.
　　　　[I see nothing happy.]
　　　　[Can I bring myself to open them?]

"Maybe after dinner."
　　　　[Will I even survive dinner without breaking?]

"Thanks for the sign and gifts."
　　　　[What if it's more barbs silently lurking inside? What if it's more weight for me to carry...more boxes requiring feeding? What if I can't take them with me?]

"Sure, upstairs is fine."
　　　　[My only den, now molted, exposed.]

I can take the lotus, the warm lights.
I can take the sacred idols.
I can take the patterned pillows.
I can take the candles.
I can take the books.
　　　　[I cannot take the corner that sat there with me for years.]

But those things are... things.
　　　　[He is anything but.]
I play with him. Walk him, tail wagging. Bowl full.
　　　　[Every time I do, it scalds my eyes. Every. Single. Time.]

"Eh, ya know, it's what's best for him."
　　　　[My boy, my dear boy. I am so sorry. I am so, so sorry. You've done no wrong. You accepted my vow. I love you so much. So much. So much. That is why I must break it.]

Another package sits on the bed, in my way.
　　　　[Oh joyous day, more stuff. Yay. So happy.]
　　　　[I barely have the energy to open it...]
A map slides out and lands right by the worn pillow.
　　　　[The tears come. Salt, staining my glasses.]
　　　　[Wave after wave. They come. Burning my eyes.]
A faint path. From a friend. In small, folded paper.
Someone knew what my eyes couldn't find.
　　　　[So small. The tiniest fraction of sunshine.]
One way forward.

　　　　[What now?]

He'll be happier. That will have to do.

Will he remember me?
　　　　[I hope not.]

Maybe one day, a small grin, when I think of him.
　　　　[Or maybe only grief.]
Maybe both.

I don't know.

--Drew 🪷