for the first time, maybe in years, it is my own joy. spontaneous and unsolicited. not vicarious, as it was before, nor mocked up to match yours to an extent where I even half-believed it to be true. i feel my own pain, too, and what a relief that is, to call it mine.
i wish i could say it happened quickly. after we’d loaded the last of the things into the car and i’d come back inside, alone—i wish i could say it felt different then. instead it’s been a gradual acclimation, since that afternoon two months ago, like how coming into a dark room on a sunny day leaves you blind for a bit. not that i am not grateful for what it was. i am. i only wish i’d realized sooner, or uncovered the part of me that always knew, that sometimes you need to let go.