Trade? An odd stage for grieving.

What does it mean, really, to barter? Haggle? Bargain?

One for me, one for you. See-saw. Ask, receive, offer, counter.

Beg. Please don’t leave…  You cannot possibly... Stay ... Surely we shouldn’t ... Don’t see her anymore… If only we could… But what if…

So what does it mean?  To barter?  What is the point?

I finished haggling with/for you years ago - you drew too hard a line.  Washing it over with invisible ink, you tried to make it look less ominous.  You chose.

Dare I say, you made the wrong choice.

Vowed.  Committed.  There’s no bargaining chip involved.

Instead, I offer surrender.  Ask questions of a higher order.  Submit my life as qurbani - sail the seas and fall to my knees, surrounded by idols and those who bow before them.

The interaction requires leverage - something tangible (or perhaps not) - an offering in exchange.  At the time, I felt I gave everything, though hindsight proved there was minutia hidden from view… a ‘pinkie-hold’ I refused to give up and give over.  Idolatry really.  I, too, am guilty.

The cycle followed on, people I thought I could connect with.  Dear ones, damaged in the fray.

“How is there room in your heart to love me when the world holds your whole affection?”  His words echo down the gangway, bounce off Atlantic waves like sonar, landing as crisp as October leaves.  One more flight.

Another.  “Do you really want me, or just the idea of me?”  Ha.  I could ask the same.  He turns and boards the plane - soars over the far mountain ranges to serve in Cyrillic.  Further proof that running to and running from are much the same.

Mandarin muse.  Appalachia.  Lonesome dove.  Odd, sobering fact.  Every heart I ever laid a hand on is divorced.

Most recently, a wounded soldier.  One, you might say, of the repercussions, the spoils and aftermath of war (if love really is a battlefield).  Perplexed, he asked me, “Why did this one work?  How did you stay - when clearly you breathe in transience?”

Simple.

He didn’t want my heart.