“It gets easier to let go, I think, the more that you learn to grow without the people you believed with every part of you would stick around”

“Have you let go though?”

“I’m learning to-“

She takes a pause, as the tears she’s trying so hard to hold back keep building. Grinding her teeth in an effort to hold back the sob that’s begging to be freed.

“-it’s hard to let go when you still have pieces of them that remind you they were here once.”

“What do you mean by pieces- like memories?”

“Memories yeah, but….” she stops. _All the things that remain here, but she doesn’t._

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“I was_ _cleaning out my room the other day. Packing things for storage- things for donation, things to keep and throwaway. I found this fold out oragami-like craft box with pictures and little notes she had gifted me, made for me. It was a sort of a ‘goodbye/graduation’ present when we were in high school. I was going away for college, about three hours away, and we weren’t sure we’d be able to stay in touch. At least subconsciously- I don’t remember us actually addressing it that way. But anyway, I just kept thinking about how different our lives are since then; how different we are. How I couldn’t text her a picture and say ‘Look what I found! Remember when you made this for me?’.

I debated if I should add it to my box of trash. If I did that, I might as well get rid of every thing else she gifted or made me. That necklace that broke and I never got fixed. I always thought of that as a sign of sorts.

I asked myself, ‘Should I throw away the paintings she gave me? Even though she was so insecure and protective about them, but for some reason she felt I was worthy of having them. Should I delete all the playlists I made about her? Should I rip up and throw away all the polaroids and pictures I printed out, so that I could put them on my walls and show off to everyone who made their way into my room that I had this prescious person in my life?’. How can I part with all these things that still remain with me, even though she doesn’t?”

The room is still in a heavy pause, both silent except for the sudden, yet quiet, sniffles from the tears rolling down her soft and blemished cheeks. A thought shows itself unbidden to the doctor, _I’ve never quite figured that out myself. _

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Politely clearing her throat, “Maybe you hold on to these things, these material things, because you’re afraid that letting them go also means the memories of what they meant to you- what she meant to you- will leave you. If you truly feel you’re ready to let go, to move on, you have to be okay with leaving these things behind”. _Leaving her behind, _goes unsaid.

“You have to be okay with the memories that might resurface, grapple with the feelings they invoke, and learn to let them rest. Over and over, until its less of a battle you’re anxiously waiting for and more of a warm, brief goodbye hug”.