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You have my teacup.
A memory peeks into my mind, slow, like the sun first rising above the horizon. My mother with that teacup in her hands, smiling in the sun by the kitchen window. My mother with her hair in a bun on top of her head, her tongue between her teeth while she added sugar to her tea. My mother cradling it, protecting it, while my dad came in for a kiss.
Remember those things instead.
“Mom, I can’t. I can’t. I can’t sleep. If I fall asleep, everything comes back. I can’t make it stop.”
Try.
“Ihavetried.”
Stop running from the things that make you feel good.
“I hurt the things that make me feel good. The only thing that feels right is fucking things up on behalf of people who can’t fuck anything up.”
I won’t think less of you if you stop.
It steals my breath for so long that I get worried she’s disappeared again. “If I stopped, that would mean I didn’t miss you.”
I’ll never stop missing you.
“I don’t know how to stop. How do I stop?”
Practice.
I burst out laughing, sobbing at the same time. “Are you serious?”
Go home, Jamie, and let your brothers and sister call you by the name I gave you.
“You named me Jameson, and that’s bad enough, because it’s a constant reminder that I’m my father’s son and he’d be so disappointed.”
He says that’s bullshit.
I can’t breathe.
“I’m supposed to take your word for it?”
You’ve always been wild and passionate and stubborn, Jamie. You don’t have to hide it for everyone else. They’ll still love you.
“I’m a pain in the ass.”
I still love you.
“I can’t keep her with me. I have to let her go.”
I can practically see her shrug.If that’s what you think is best.
“How are you advocating for me tokeepkidnapping her?”
I’m not! I would never.
“What are you saying, then?”
That if you love someone—
“Let them go. Let them get away from me.”
Tell them. Show them.
