I’m sitting on the World’s Most Uncomfortable Office Chair, trying to write. I’m stuck and I’m sticky. I’m angry about it. Suddenly Hallelujah by Jeff Buckley starts to play on Pandora. Suddenly I am taken away from the hard wood under my ass and the swell of frustration that comes when you’ve got nothing to say.
Something about his voice. Something about the words he chose. Something about the melody and the memory. This song. This was our song. This is THE song that slays me. Its sword cuts me open. And now more than ever I know why: Buckley ended his life because he felt so much lastima.
It makes me think of you. It makes me think of you so quickly, it’s like a flood of you. I remember how much you made me laugh, how you danced to Lionel Richie songs, how your eyelashes were like the whiskers on a baby seal. How your long, lean hands felt on my face. How that used to mean something to me, even if it doesn’t anymore.
You were so lost. But you were good. You just outdrew me.
I was no picnic. I used to be somebody else then. Half a girl, barely a woman, definitely not a human being. I was broken, pieces of me jingling in a bag, walking around and clattering. I’m sorry I made you carry a sack of shards.
I’m sorry I hated you for so long. I’m sorry I loved you even when you didn’t want me to. And I’m sorry that this beautiful, perfect song brings me back to those days, those youthful days, those uncooked, unpredictable, unsure days when we had each other. When every breath we drew may have actually been a Hallelujah - but we didn’t know it.
p.s. Go ahead, listen to it now.
p.p.s. My husband just told me this post kinda made him jealous. Now I have lastima for him! NOTE: This is not about the one who got away. Lucky for me, that didn’t happen - I am with the one :)