I walk past that door – a loud, flashy door cover screams ‘The Party is Here!’ – trying not to think too much about the mixed emotions swirling around, aching my heart and muddying my mind. I know what heartache and loss feels like – it clings and prods; it wails and thrashes; it cuts and then just like that it goes, as itching, raw, and sore as the first time.
A soft croon of a trombone rings in the air behind that closed door. It wafts in bittersweet tones and I wonder if the one who plays the instrument yearns for some blurred, broken past. Do they wonder about ‘what if’ or ‘should have’? Do they regret the way they handled themselves and their emotions?
I huddle and trudge throughout the rest of the evening hours – now far, far away from that closed door – trying to accept, address, and move on with my life as I cope with the feelings that do not want to leave just yet. How could they leave just yet? My feelings have not yet mourned and grieved completely; I still have not bled or cried out all of my emotions. My scars are still tangible and exposed to the world, sporadically itching now and again. I blink, surprised that I can still feel so much despite fractured memories and disjointed grudges.
A whole memory away from that closed door, I feel a new slight itch on my skin. I turn my head to look closer and rest my eyes softly on my scars, new raised flesh on older skin, before I scan further seeking the source of the new itch. I find it momentarily after a few seconds of searching and there it is – pulsing, red, bright, waiting, healing.