I have a few things on my mind. I want to learn to play that violin piece that sounds like the night sky. I want to finish my painting of the white doves. I want to pour my heart into my garden. Bromilia, Thunbergia, Lillies. I want to play tennis in the Tugu Courts. I want to stop
arguing with you all the time.
Read this slowly. S l o w l y. I need you to take in my words.
I think this is the last time I will write to you.
I cannot stay.
I know we argue. I don’t know why we argue. You live your life. I live mine. You love your life so much that you don’t have time for mine. I can’t pretend it doesn’t hurt me when you don’t make time for me. When everything else comes first. Read slowly, sweetheart. Please.
I think I feel like an afterthought. I feel like a “maybe”. A “might”. You might call me. You might be too tired. You might drop by. On the way, of course. Never coming just to see me, always dropping by. Why, is it far? Does it bother you? Are you really that busy?
I know you are. I know how many things you are balancing. I know you’re juggling with glass balls and if one falls, it will crack. I admire your strength. You have your career, you have your obligations, you have places that you need to be, and the person that you have to
become. But why am I not one of those responsibilities?
“Because you understand, how busy I am.” No, I don’t. I could pretend that I do, but the time for pretending is over. I hate you. I hate the
way you treat me like an afterthought. You make me feel like I don’t matter.
I matter. I have a thousand and one things to get done. I am running around, from university to home, to work, to appointments, to responsibilities, to everything. I make time. I make time when there is none, you unwilling, uncaring man. Do you know how well versed I am in the art of time? I make time to feed the squirrels. The squirrels, sweetheart. The ones you used to point out in my back garden. They had come scampering down the trees when we stepped outside. They know me, and they come running to the sound of my voice, even as
you turn a deaf ear. I feed the squirrels.
I am one of the best, at what I do. Everyone knows my name. How hard is that, when there are hundreds of us? Do you think it’s easy? Do you think when I call you and hold the phone up to my ear with one hand, and tell you about my day, that I’m loafing around? I am writing, I am typing, I am eating, I am gasping for air with my other hand. I will not hurt you. I will not hurt you in the way you hurt me. I will make time for you.
For the boy I once knew, anyways. But you were so loving. You cared for me. You listened. You heard everything I said. And I liked the way you talked. It was very gentle. I liked the way you thought. It was very caring. I liked the way you made space for me in your life. I liked that I felt the love. I really felt it. All over.
I am sorry to have to tell you all this. I am sorry I cannot accommodate these changes in behavior. I myself, have changed too much to stay. I know you care. I know you don’t. But sweetheart, I’m at the door. I’m leaned against the doorframe. And I’m fading away. I’m leaving. This is the last time I will write to you.
I cannot stay. I was glass. I was one of the glass balls you were juggling. You dropped me. I was not rubber; I did not bounce back. You shattered the glass. You shattered my heart. Now I cannot stay.
Written By: –
Amanda Ariyawansa
(University of Moratuwa)
