Mornings I stand at the window, watching you, waiting for you to go. I stand until my feet grow tired, and I wonder sometimes what takes you so long to pull away.
How things have changed. Not long ago, I ran to catch you before you walked out the door. I ran to kiss your face. Now, I only wait. I wait, and I don’t know why.
Have you forgotten something? Is it that simple, or is there a war within you?
I ask because I see your struggle each day, see it played out beneath your strained expressions and labored breaths and your frantic attempts to block out the World.
(I wish I were not part of the World.)
Sometimes I think there are two beneath your skin. There is the Pretender – he I know well. And there is the You. I know the You only by glimpses, the way I might catch sight of a shy animal before it scurries off into the brush.
Who sits behind the wheel of the car this morning? Is it the Pretender or the You?
As you pull away at last, is it You driving the car? Or does the car drive You?