The Last String

Today, I cut my last string to you.

A string I always thought could never be cut, ripped, broken, torn. I never thought of it as a string, in fact. Instead it was an iron mast, strong and sturdy, comparable to one that held up bridges or maybe skyscrapers. Thought it to be strong enough to hold thousands of tons of concrete, materials thrown together to play an unquestioned piece of someone’s life. I thought it was an iron mast, or maybe a steel track, guiding the longest of paths without a doubt in a conductor’s mind.

As I am with many things, I was wrong. Today I cut my last string to you. Just like a puppet, I needed that string. Thought I needed it to hold me up, keep me ready for my next move, needed it to be who I was when I was with you: dependent and waiting for you.

I cut it. I fell. I fell the way a glass of water falls when you aren’t paying attention and you put it down and think that it can still make it, it just landed at a weird angle, but it doesn’t: it falls. It splashes, it pours and all you can do is try and grab it and hope you can still catch the rest of what was left in the glass.

I caught the glass and it turns out there’s still some water left inside. Water ready to be drunken when a sturdier hand is its master. Ready, when it won’t be poured out, but drunken with the intention of acknowledgement, not accident.

Today, I cut my last string to you. Now I know it wasn’t an iron mast, it wasn’t the steel tracks trusted for a trusted way home. It was a string, just a simple string. Who knew it was just a flimsy string?

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