a true story about daily transitions
The Fourth Corner
She's not crying and she's not holding on. She just keeps walking back to that corner to check if I'm still here.
the realization
I kept making goodbye shorter because I thought a long one would hurt her more. But short didn't mean easier, it just meant she had nothing to hold onto. She needed the same goodbye, every time, so she could count on it.
It was a Tuesday and I was already late. I said goodbye at the door, kissed her head, and went to get my bag. Thirty seconds later she was standing at that corner of the hallway, the one by the shoe rack, just looking at me. Not crying. Not grabbing my leg. Checking.
have you ever felt this way too?
So I said goodbye again, quicker this time. Then a third time, barely a goodbye at all, a kiss blown into the air while I was already turning. And every single time I made it faster, she came back faster. I'd get maybe ten steps and there she'd be at that corner again. I thought shorter would hurt less. It was doing the opposite right in front of me.
The fourth time I put the bag down. I sat on the floor in the hallway and told her, you keep coming back to check if I'm still here. Two kisses, then the same words, then I go. I gave her both kisses. I said the words. I stood up.
I opened the door. She came to the corner. She only looked.
what I found myself saying
""You keep coming back to check if I'm still here.""
""Two kisses, then the same words, then I go.""
""I'm going now. I'll be back after your snack.""
