I sat on the grass and watched her enter through the gate. We used to be friends. Since childhood. Before puberty. She’s been in my life for most of my life. And then she wasn’t. Her actions toward me were untoward and I walked away. Well, no. I’ve stood staid; I’ve just remained silent. But when I see her I say hello. I acknowledge her without warmth. Out of spiritual obligation and not nostalgia. No longer affectionate. Once in awhile I’d look away from my group and see her across the patio. Am I angry? No. I’m not an angry man. And although I am an Irishman, I do forgive and often forget. So I’m not angry. Am I saddened? No. I don’t think of the loss; I think of the less. She’s less than what I assumed. I assumed loyalty. I assumed fidelity. I didn’t hope; I believed.
We live in an angry and bitter world. We’ve become the Divided States of America. And so I guard myself from a deep seep. I refuse to allow myself to wallow or to stew. So I sat on the grass and examined my conscience. I’m not angry. I’m not saddened. But I am disquieted. No. I’m disappointed. Yes. That’s the adjective.
It’s bigger than the less of a friendship. It’s bigger than the loss of a believed. It’s a reflection of my soul. I’ve held a human to an expectation. I took her probity as granted. I’ve considered the word. Disappointed. Not properly appointed. I appoint people to positions in my life: loyal friend. Sage adviser. Amusing clown. Disappointed is a reaction. Disappointed is mine. I’m responsible for disappointed. So now I guard myself. I must avoid my bitter. I refuse to embrace my hateful. I repudiate a sarcastic. I will not have a pointed personality.