Moving On

My entry for the "Inspired By a Song" competition
"Near to You" by A Fine Frenzy

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1. Moving On

         I sit on the floor in front of my bed. I found it. The shoebox,  with the gold, almost worn-away lettering that says “Michelle” on the lid, that sits in the top of my closet, full of every picture, every letter, every memory-worthy piece I had ever been given. I start taking things out, one-by-one. The letters that were given to me on my high school and college Graduation Days; pictures from my first day of every school year; the last memory from my mom, a picture of us in front of the statue in Jackson Square in New Orleans. Gosh, I miss her so much. I look up to the ceiling, smiling, as if to say “I love you, Mom”. I look back down at the box. The next picture I see shifts my mood slightly.

         Alex. Oh, how I loved him. I still kind of love him. His charming smile, his sparkling eyes, his can-do personality, his upbeat attitude. Why? Why did I call it off with us? He and I had something beautiful. I loved him, but I let him go. It wouldn’t have worked. We were so dysfunctional. He never loved me back anyways.

         I hear my bedroom door creak open. “Hey, babe,” he says. The soothing voice that calms me. The voice of the man I love so dearly. “Hi, Charlie.” I smile at him, though he can tell something isn’t right. He comes and sits next to me, taking the picture out of my hand. He studies it, then looks back at me and says, “He is the past, Mitchy. You didn’t need him anyways.” He was right. I didn’t need him. He’s disappearing, fading subtly. I am working oh so hard to get back to who I used to be. With Charlie’s help.

         I look at him and kiss him. “I’m better where you are. Near to you, I am healing, but it’s taking so long. Though he’s gone, and you are wonderful, it’s hard to move on. But I can do it, thanks to you. And Johnny.”

         Little feet come pattering down the hallway. “Did I hear my name?” Our little five-year-old bundle of joy, Johnny. We all laugh and smile as he runs in and sits on Charlie’s lap. “Mommy, is that you?” he asks, pointing to the picture of Alex and I. I smile at him and say, “Why, yes it is, sweetie.” He looks puzzled. “Who is that guy standing next to you?”

         I look at the picture again. I think about my response for a moment. “He’s just an old friend. A memory,” I say, smiling.

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