the truth is (soft boiled)

Sometimes, it takes a long time to let go.  Sometimes you don’t even realize that you are holding on, so tight.

It blind sides you at 6am on a Friday morning, when you make the perfect soft-boiled egg.  He was the king of eggs (well, the king of the kitchen really) and he knew just the way you loved them and you never imagined that he wouldn’t be there to make breakfast for you on Sunday mornings so you never bothered learning (is it 3 minutes or 5 minutes?); the egg department was unequivocally his.  Little patterns, little things that were never discussed, just understood, until they quietly became habits.  Habits that you didn’t even realize you were grateful for until you tried to make your own damn soft-boiled eggs.

You’ve tried many times indeed but you keep fucking them up. They range from nearly raw to overcooked almost every single time. And then, there it was, Friday morning.  The perfect soft-boiled egg staring you in the face with a yolky grin.  One silly little moment, one silly perfect soft-boiled egg… and with it came a lifetime of memories.

It’s impossible to escape him here because this is where it all began, in Montreal.  He walks with you down streets you used to walk together.  He’s at the restaurant you used to go to when you first started dating and try as you might, you can’t ignore the giant KG initials painted on a building near your work.  He pops up in 90% of the songs you listen to; memories of him are waiting to ambush you when you pour the laundry detergent or smell fall leaves… even the smell of ocean made its way up your nostrils the other day, which is pretty much impossible here but there it was, salt and seaweed.  So there he was too.  You can turn a street corner and bump right into his ghost on any given day.  Pretty soon everything reminds you of him and the longing sets in.  And you’re back at square one waiting, wishing, wanting.

It happens mainly on the weekends after spending time with friends or family.  They leave, you shut the door and all that is left is your constant companero silencio and echos of laughter fading away.  It’s deafening.  You wish that it would wrap you up like a warm blanket but instead it feels like a weight on your heart and before you know it, you’re turning the radio or the tv on… anything to mask it, to make it disappear.  Or you pick up the phone to call him and you open the wound all over again.  The scar tissue was forming, the healing had begun but you can’t help it, you keep picking at the scab and it bleeds every time.

The truth is you miss him.
The truth is you miss you with him.
The truth is you like yourself better without him.

The truth is it gets pretty lonely sometimes.
The truth is you want him back.
The truth is that would be a mistake right now.

The truth is he’s holding pieces of your heart, you feel like a hostage.
The truth is you love him.
The truth is you resent him.

The truth is you are holding on.
The truth is you want to let go.
The truth is you need to let go.

All my truths cracked open… put them in a frying pan and turn them over sunny side up because they are just too messy for soft-boiling.