My grasp on it stops as I let my fingers open, the last touch, the first inch of space between what I was and what I am. I'm atop a mountain and I have to leave a part of myself there.
If I carry it down I'll surely see that I must carry it with me everywhere.
But I am familiar with it. It is me, afterall.
Until one day it's not. It's nothing like me. It's only there because it was me but now it is just another thing I carry.
Sometimes it's good at blending in. I might not notice I carry it. Other days I know; goodbyes to the familiar are easy to delay.
But days come when I am atop a mountain and I get to hold it so carefully, look it right in the eyes, lift it into the air and stop my grasp, watch it drift away from me and kiss it goodbye.