Emotional purging

I answered because I thought it might be a dinner invitation or maybe just a telemarketer calling again to request money for the Policeman's Fund or that man who's always suggesting new siding! and a better roof!

But it was you, again, calling to tell me you love me, and you're miserable, and you're sad, and you wish that you'd said something sooner. If our conversation had been mapped, it would have taken place primarily in Utah. Pun, of course, intended.

I spent too much time with you apologizing - for how much you hate your job and for the stock market and for loving the ocean. And now, I refuse to apologize for the unhappiness that you brought on yourself by closing off from so many things for so long. And I wanted to ask if you knew my middle name (Anne) or that my favorite movies have subtitles, or that I cry when I visit the pound. I wondered whether you knew that my three favorite things about summer are lemonade stands, the smell of chlorine, and the sound of cicadas. I wanted to inform you that I love cleaning the bathroom, alphabetizing my bookshelf, and trying to play the guitar. I debated telling you that I don't even like books about zombies, and that I strongly believe in intuitive medicine, and that love isn't something that happens because it works with your schedule.

Instead, I just listened. And when you were finished, I told you I should probably let you go. So I could alphabetize my bookshelf, and organize my closet, and continue (unapologetically) to revel in the knowledge that sometimes true growth isn't becoming someone new - it's accepting who you were all along.