Pain Packs Up

Pain Packs Up

When you and Pain finally grow apart, everyone’s relieved. You pack Pain’s stuff in boxes, and when Pain doesn’t stop by Sunday as promised, you carry them to the attic.

When you next poke around, looking for your old, blue bowling ball, you see Pain’s boxes, stacked and dusty, and you think Pain might need this stuff, you should really phone; instead you lug your ten-pound ball down the attic’s ladder.

When you search for your old golf clubs, see the dusty cardboard taking up your space, you decide Pain doesn’t need this stuff anymore. So, you bend at the knees, balance Pain’s heavy boxes. It feels good, hefting them one at a time to the curb.

Boxes gone, you take time, after you’ve showered, to erase Pain and Pain’s friends, even the doctors who were clever at cocktail parties, from your address book. It’s like Pain was never there. You don’t care what Melanie says, you’re happy if you never see Pain again.