Stones at the river’s edge

I could let go of the need to be understood, the clutching at exact words that prove I meant well.
I could loosen my grip on the old injury that says the world will hurt me if I speak wrong.
I could let go of the certainty that my vision is clearer than another’s.
I could let go of the silent scorekeeping that measures who gave enough.
I could let go of the wish to control the shape of my grief so it doesn’t unsettle anyone.
I could let go of my fear of vanishing if I am gentle.

For the sake of harmony, I might lay these down, like stones at the edge of a river,
watching the current carry them where I no longer need to follow.