Handfuls of Sunshine

From summer to autumn and autumn to winter, whenever I came across it, I would bring him little handfuls of sunshine. “Look what I found for you!” It was almost a daily occurrence. The dusty yellow would bleed into the grey air that he breathed. My excitement was always genuine. I was always trying to crack the code. How do you make someone love you? Some days he would smile. Some days he wouldn’t. Most days he would put me out. He always wanted to close the blinds.

Slowly, I learned that you can’t straighten enough hand towels or cook enough meals or apply enough coats of mascara to be good enough for anybody. You can’t write enough letters. You can’t strategize; love is not a chess game. You can’t simplify; love isn’t exactly checkers either. All you can do is expect the stars to come out every night. All you can do is expect the sun to rise every morning. You can breathe in, you can breathe out. You can take some of your sunshine and begin to keep it for yourself.

Maybe everything that I did was wrong. Maybe it wasn’t sunshine that he needed anyway. Maybe it’s better that we’re free from each other.

I can’t believe all that yet. My hands are still heavy-laden with the light I wanted to share with him. But maybe someday I will believe it. Maybe someday it won’t be so hard.