Maddie Whitaker
I started off my poem with the opening stanza from “Sonoma” by Jane Munro.
He totaled his blue truck –
Slowly spun out on an icy bridge,
Rammed it into a guard rail.
Twenty minutes ago, we were at the restaurant.
Waist-deep in our glasses of wine,
Avoiding the obvious tension,
Making brief eye contact and then looking away as if it had burned us.
When I finally got it out,
His hand stilled while twirling his pasta.
A shaky exhale blew the garnish to flutter off his plate.
Everything around us stilled as I told what I thought was my future to leave me behind.
I didn’t have a reason for my rejection that would satisfy.
There was no explanation that would offer closure.
No apparent logic behind my refusal to commit.
Just a gut-wrenching pit in my stomach that formed upon the words “Will you marry me?”
The worst was sliding my hand to his across the table,
Returning the most dangerous piece of jewelry there is.
An engagement ring is a pretty ironic white flag.
Especially when you were able to make it look like it was everything you wanted.
The eyes I felt safest with snapped to me,
Swimming with confusion and hurt,
Begging me to open my damn mouth.
Willing me to tell him it was all a joke.
Saying “I wasn’t ready” would imply there’s a time when I could be.
But I won’t be.
So, I stayed silent.
As the waiter came to collect our plates,
As the check was dropped off and returned,
Even as he walked me to my car, no words were shared.
Only more silence.
Here I am, sitting in the hospital waiting room,
Trying to figure out how to introduce myself to the staff.
Fiancé? No. Friend? Unlikely now. Stranger? Better off that way.