Breathing out memories
Take a deep breath, I told her. No, deeper. Breathe in for five seconds. Hold it for five. Now, breathe out for five…six…seven. I held her hands for round after round, guiding, leading, until she quit shaking, could look at me without tears flooding her cheeks.
Life hurls us into moments we might wish had never happened, that seem impossible to survive, but then we keep breathing. In for five. Hold for five. Out for five.
Loved ones die. Breathe in. Breathe out.
Lovers betray, batter, make us believe less of ourselves. Breathe in. Breathe out.
One day passes, and we survive. We breathe in the memories of that person, that event. We take it all in. Remember their smiles, their laughter, the silly and the painful. We hold the memories tight, fight the heaving in our chests that try to split our hearts wide open. We breathe them out, releasing the tightness, the pain, the horror of loss, no matter the reasons. We breathe in, and breathe out.
A week. A month. A year. A decade. A million seconds and a single moment seem the same at times. How many memories make up a moment? How many good things outweigh a bad time? How could they, we wonder, no answers in sight. So we breathe in, filling our lungs with all the feelings that come with our memories, holding them inside until the point of nearly bursting, until finally, the exhale, the relief, the next breath.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Keep breathing.
Photo by Max van den Oetelaar on Unsplash
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