Willis 1

Tori Willis
Professor Adam Williams
English 1101
28 August 2014
It's Not Goodbye; It's See You Later
It's small and reflective in both looks and thought. It's shaped to symbolize love with smooth
surfaces and points. This love isn't alone; love never is. This love has the best kind of friend- one that
represents transition, beauty, and freedom. One that has instruments of arrival and departure filled with
twinkling, unmelting ice. They are forged together forever by cold, hard metal contrasted against all
that is pure, ironically hanging by a rope the color of darkness.
I pick it up off the table and in one motion it swiftly scratches against the wood. It reminds me
of the times I have emptied out my piggy bank and the nickels, dimes, and quarters rolled out onto the
table in all different directions before falling to their sides. The obsidian shaded rope is smooth like silk
as I wrap it around my fingers; I can barely detect it as it lays across my skin. I can feel the chilled
alloy thump against my chest when I move in the motion of a drinking bird. I bring it to my face; it
smells as musty in my hand as it looks polished to my eyes. It sways back and forth like a pendulum
controlled only by my hand. I am unable to register if I hear the friction against the rope or just sense
the vibration from it. It is both equal and opposite. My hand holds it tight as her arms once held me
close, but it is not the same.
What lies inside could easily be mistaken for dust if spread out among a shelf. Easily dissolved
between a few fingers. A relic of my past. The tiny embers sealed in forever for safe keeping, never to
be seen. I can only imagine they resemble the end of a cigarette. If I had to tell you what it smelled like,
I would probably guess death. This is a paradox all in itself. As I caress my thumb against the back of
this totem, the scratches tell me There's no goodbyes, only laters.