Destruction

I stare at her as she sits on my bamboo chair, eating her lunch. Words, or more accurately accusations, boil up inside me but I say nothing.

As she tells me her most recent stories, I keep trying to remember how we became friends. What were the things that brought us together? That made us so close?

When I look at her now, I can’t remember a single idea we share. Can I still be friends with a person who’s the epitome of most things to which I morally oppose? Should I keep trying? Questions dance in my mind as I try hard to concentrate on her words. But I only hear bits and pieces. It’s as if she’s acting out a foreign language tape, emphasizing the important words while the others fade out into the background.

I can’t move beyond what’s so fundamentally wrong to me. My mother’s words echo in my ear; “What makes you think you know what’s best for her?” I don’t. I so don’t know what’s best for her. But I can’t imagine it’s this. Her life has had nothing but curveballs since this saga began. How many bad things must happen before we can agree it’s a sign?

It’s all so inconsequential to her. As if these aren’t real people and their lives aren’t being destroyed alongside of hers. I feel like getting up and shaking her, so her senses can move back to where they belong. And then, once more, I remember my mother’s words. I don’t know where they belong. Maybe this is their new home. Maybe this is who she’ll be from now on. I should be happy for her. In many ways, she’s more content then ever before. Shouldn’t that make me ecstatic?

Well, it doesn’t. And I know this isn’t the best for her. I know she’ll be hurt and I hate not being able to prevent it. I don’t know what’s best for her. But I know this isn’t it.

I don’t tell her anything. I’ve said all I can. Now, I just wait.

Previously? Never Mind.