Letting Go

A Story by Hatter

Sometimes just letting go is the hardest thing to do, especially when you know its the right thing.

I’m sitting with Monica on the old rusty swings at the elementary school a few streets from our house.

“When are you leaving?” I ask quietly, looking down at my feet. She kicks her legs up and starts swinging slowly.

“Next week,” she says, a sad smile on her face as she looks towards the street in front of us.

“Which day?”

“Wednesday,” she swings her legs hard and starts going higher. I turn to look at her, but she’s moving too fast on the swing, so I can’t see her face. I start swinging my legs.

“What time?”

“Twelve,” she replies, but I barely hear her; she’s swinging so high that the whole swing set has started creaking.

“I have school at that time, and Dad’s at work,” I say, raising my voice so that she can hear me above the creaking.

“I know,” she mumbles and then sticks her feet out and abruptly stops swinging, “I thought it would be better for all of us if I left while you were in school and Dad wasn’t home.”

I stop swinging and finally look straight at her, “That’s not fair.”

She jumps up from her swing and turns to me, “I know, I’m sorry,” she reaches her hand out to me. I take it and stand up. I’m a few inches taller now, so I’m looking down at her. She smiles at me and looks across the street again.

“I’m going to miss you,” I say quietly and turn to look at what she keeps staring at. I realize that she’s watching the sunset.

“I know,” she replies quietly. She looks back at me and smiles, “I’m going to miss you too.” Then she turns back to the sunset. I feel tears at the back of my eyes and sobs wanting to escape, but I push them down. I look at her face as the orange, pink, and purple tones of the sunset wash over her.

“I’m sorry I’m leaving, but you know I can’t stay here anymore,” she says, confidently.

I nod and push away the pleading words that are close to spilling over. I see the determination in her face and I close my eyes for a moment, as I open them, I turn to watch the sunset with her. I reach for her hand and am surprised to find how small it is. I remember a time when I thought she was so tall, and her hands were bigger than mine.

“I know,” I whisper, “it’s ok, I’ll be fine, and Dad will be too.”

She nods, and I can see the relief my words give her, “You’re the best little brother ever.”

I smile and stand with her as we watch the beautiful sunset behind the house in front of us. I know I’m going to miss her, but I understand that it’s time for her to find her freedom from Dad, from the shadow of Mom’s abandonment, and from me. I squeeze her hand reassuringly, she squeezes back. We stand there for a while in the darkness enjoying our last moments together. Then I pull her along after me and we silently head home.