Some, and some others

They’re not here. They’re wherever it is they are and will ever be, with whomever—the whomever who happens to not be me, or you, for that matter.

There’s no reason to give a damn, anyway. There’s no benefit in giving a f*ck, giving a damn. Hindsight is 20-20, as they say. The photos don’t lie. I sift through, noting the faces that make me cringe now (we did what? he said what? why did he?).

Some cared, understood what it meant to care. It’s tougher than it sounds, these days. No, some, they were the real deal. Those photos, I keep close. I don’t mind revisiting. I smile still. The intention was there, even if the relationship failed. There was love, period. No one had to wonder. Friendship had shifted, jumped the tracks, landed safe, sound and hopeful. You could track it, chart the trajectory.

Sometimes, after the love moved on and the hurt faded, the friendship returned, to stay. No harm, no foul.

That happens, you know, sometimes, when the planets align just so, and you clean the cat litter on the right day of the week.

The others—quite possibly, they meant no harm, either. Best to operate under this assumption. So let it lie, wish them well enough. No words will do, not quite. Not quite a loss, if there was nothing to lose. An unintentional sham. To be someone’s I should will never quite satisfy. Best never discussed, not now, nothing to be done, ah, well. I can wash my hands and my sheets of it and hope the learning curve grows shorter still. A decent, respectable hope to have, as a lady of a certain age.

What were they thinking they’d find here? I can’t answer that. This is a funny lost-and-found. No matter how I try to empty the bin—match the mittens, give away the hat and the thermos—there’s always something left behind.