And a One, And a Two . . .

Submission I

Scattered clothing on the lawn. A sea of boxers, sports jerseys and that pair of pajamas I bought but you never wore. Determined this time. You'll leave, and this time, you'll stay gone. I won't ask you back. You'll send flowers and play my favorite songs on long voice-mail messages that I won't listen to. But I won't yield. You're wrong for me in all the right ways. And I have to let you go just to prove. . . I love myself more than you.

Submission II

She has a pair of pajamas she keeps in the bottom drawer of her nightstand. She remembers when they swam on her; the drawstring of the bottoms pulled so tightly that yards of fabric were ruffled together, the cuffs of the sleeves rolled to the shoulder seam. She fools herself sometimes. Holding them up to her cheek, smothering her nose in the folds. She would swear to you she smells Old Spice and pipe tobacco. Though the fabric ceased to yield such scents long ago.

She had worn them every night after he left. Refusing to let her mother wash them. Refusing to believe that he was really gone. He’d left them here. The pajamas he’d worn every night since she was born. He wouldn’t leave them. He would have to come back. And when he did, she’d be there. Waiting. Daddies don’t leave their pajamas. And they don’t leave their little girls.

But she hadn’t been that scared little girl in 22 years and she hadn’t worn the pajamas in almost 15. It was time to let them, and everything they stood for, go. She opened the drawer, determined to throw them in the trash, more certain than ever that she could. But, as she pulled them from the drawer, that old scent wafted up. Old Spice and pipe tobacco.

Closing her eyes, she folded them carefully back in their place.