9:00 PM Writing exercise.
Once we had completely ascended into the air, our feet kicking freely, we shared a comfortable silence, breathing in the humid air and looking down on the world.
“I was thinking,” she began, not quite looking at me, “that while we’re up here you should just yell out everything you hate about him. Just, like, get it all out up here where no one can hear you.”
The idea kind of shocked me. I’d been wanting to cry all day and found it especially hard to hold back my tears now. I coughed uncomfortably as a giant, painful lump formed in my throat.
“I don’t know,” I said, shakily. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Okay,” she shrugged, now looking at me. “You don’t have to say anything.”
I wanted to yell, but I didn’t want to cry in front of her. I didn’t want to spend these precious few moments I had flying above Hawaii with my sister thinking about him. I didn’t want yet another moment of my life to be about him.
I must have thought about this longer than I realized, because suddenly there was a jerk on the rope and I felt us being pulled lower towards the boat.
Now I really wanted to cry, realizing I’d spent all that time in the air thinking about not thinking about him. But I surprised myself and did what felt completely unnatural - I laughed.
It sounded strange – a forced, wheezy exhalation. A croak. It reminded me of the sounds I used to make after an asthma attack.
But I did it again. And again. And again, until it sounded like real laughter. Soon, I was smiling and giggling uncontrollably, kicking my legs as I was reeled into safety, my sister beside me, watching and laughing too.
Love,
Tara
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