Worked a 9-5:15 this morning. It was a pretty uneventful day, so I’ve got a pretty short poem out of it, and one that requires very little preamble.
On Letting Go
There’s a difference in hearing the word,
And the actual weight of its meaning.
Walking through “my” department,
My kingdom of hanger and clothes,
I feel power slip through my fingers,
Gliding like 60% silk, 40% polyester.
The displays I’ve carefully arranged
Will fill with shirts and skirts I didn’t choose.
Their color coordination won’t be mine—
Won’t be my problem, I tell myself.
But the thought of hands other than these
Adjusting the fabric at the front of my display
Makes me cringe. In more than four years,
It seems I’ve earned ownership over something.
Note: This poem comes from the weird feeling that comes with stepping down from my temporary coordinator position. Happily, our original sportswear coordinator is doing much better and gets to come back to work, but that also means my time filling in is over. That puts me right back where I started, and I feel a little sad having to say goodbye to “my” department, even though I knew I was just borrowing it all along.