And Then I Said Goodbye. . .

They say still waters run deep. And deep down at the bottom lies a layer of mud and soot so thick it can hold on to your footprint for days and days. I know those waters very well. They don’t flow. They don’t move. They ripple from time to time when annoyed, but they don’t move.

I sat on the edge of the pond and stuck my feet into that water. Spreading my toes to ensure that the coolness of the pond’s inhabitants coursed pass my skin as I sank my foot deep down to the bottom where the stiller waters lie. I had been there before. I had been there many times. I found comfort and solace there. And nothing about these waters disturbed me despite the fact I couldn’t see down pass the surface. Whatever it was that could be living there, I knew couldn’t be too bad, because I had been there before and I was still alive and well.

I took a deep breath with my eyes and soaked it all in. The pond that had been my solitude, though I had known no other of greater size, had appeared small to me. It was comfortable, but it was small. It was still. And it just fit me, like a lazy boy suit on a Sunday afternoon. I sat there still, breathing and listened to my heart. The rhythm told me it was time to move on. The still waters would always be there, but the greater unknown would not. Now was my time to learn what the greater unknown was.

It saddened me, but of course I knew what I had to do. I bent over and kissed the water’s surface with my finger tips. It was time to leave here and find comfort in what I didn’t know. I pressed hard on the pond’s bottom one last time to ensure a healthy footprint that would last for longer than days and days. And then I slowly unearthed my toes and un-drowned my legs. I stood by the pond’s side and looked down at my blurred reflection.

It was at that moment that I knew, she would miss me as much as I would miss her. I thought I saw a tear come to her eye. The pond cried for me and wished me well. I waved at the blurred reflection of myself.

And then I said goodbye. . .