Sometimes, there seems to be an argument, perhaps simply an exchange, about who or what lets go. Who is the protagonist of the story, the narrator, the one in charge who is mapping her own path. Forging, digging, carving, sinking, floating, discovering.
Does the peacock let go of that single feather in its train, the one that looks like an eye, to scare off predators and lure in lovers? Or does the single feather let go, heading onto another world of its own, as a found object on my mantle or part of a forest thrush’s nest?
Does the dandelion let go of its parachute pappus in autumn? Or does the pappus let go of the bloom that stretched from the earth into the sky, floating upward itself towards new horizons?
Does the father let go of life, eyes gently closed, exhaling his last breath, a quick one then a long slow one, going still? Or does the family let go of him, wishing with delicate bones that the suffering is over, healing hands on body, healing hands on heart?
Does the 200-year-old oak tree let go of the lobed leaf? Or does the leaf let go of the tree, give it up, create space for future leaves to turn their dazzling shades of orange and red?