Letting Go

Letting Go

By Dale Scherfling

Word Count 1,313

I took off my glasses and set them on the end table beside the old Dodgers cup—the coffee-and smoke-stained one from the Brooklyn days, before the team packed up and left. The cup’s been with me longer than most people I’ve known. I pulled my favorite sofa shawl around my shoulders, the one that still smells faintly of cedar from the chest I kept it in for years.

“Nap time,” I said, and Remy hopped up onto the couch like he’d been waiting for the cue. He circled twice—always two and a half turns, never more, never less—then settled against my thigh. His warmth seeped through the shawl.

This was our ritual. Afternoon light slanting through the blinds, a couple hours of writing behind me, the rest of the day unhurried. I’d spent the morning roughing out drafts from the notes I’d scribbled in the dark before dawn. My best ideas never come from staring at a screen; they arrive in bed, or at a red light, or halfway through a grocery aisle. I’ve learned to catch them while they’re fresh. Those are the stories that sell quickest.

And lately, they’ve been selling. Fifty-one so far. Enough that checking my email has become its own small thrill. First thing in the morning, then again after lunch, I look for that subject line: We’re pleased to accept… When one comes in, I log it—acceptance date, publication date, rights period. Then I withdraw the piece from the other markets. Business first. Then back to the work.

I leaned my head against the cushions. Remy’s breathing slowed into that soft, rhythmic snore of his. I closed my eyes, letting myself drift into that half-sleep I’ve come to rely on. Not real sleep—more like a beta state where the mind sorts through things on its own. Scenes rearrange themselves. Sentences tighten. Problems solve themselves without my help.

That’s when the tingling started again.

It began in my legs, a faint shimmer under the skin, then moved up through my arms and shoulders. Not unpleasant. Warm, almost soothing. It had only started happening recently, but I accepted it the moment it arrived. Some things you don’t question.

I knew what it meant. Or thought I did.

It felt like something inside me preparing to loosen its grip. Not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon. A gentle untying. A body saying, We’ve done enough.

I opened my eyes for a moment. Sunlight pooled across the rug. Outside, birds chattered in the bare branches. Remy shifted in his sleep, pressing closer.

There was a half-finished story waiting on the laptop. If I got to it, fine. If not, Fifty-one were already out in the world or on their way. More than I ever expected. More than I ever needed.

The tingling rose to my chest, warm as a hand resting there.

I let my eyes close again.

***

The first time it happened, I’d been sitting at the kitchen table, revising a story about a retired machinist who couldn’t bring himself to throw away his old work boots. The tingling had started in my fingertips, like they were falling asleep. I shook my hands out, thinking it was circulation. But then it spread, slow and steady, up my arms and into my shoulders. A warmth, not a numbness. A settling.

I’d paused, waiting for fear to show up. It didn’t.

Instead, I felt a kind of recognition. Like remembering a tune I’d heard long ago.

I didn’t tell anyone. Who would I tell? My doctor would run tests, find nothing conclusive, maybe prescribe something. My sister would worry. My old writing group would turn it into a metaphor. I didn’t want any of that.

I just wanted to understand it on my own terms.

***

The afternoon light shifted, warming the side of my face. I could feel Remy’s breath against my thigh, steady and soft. He was getting older too. His muzzle had gone gray around the edges, and he slept more than he used to. But he still followed me from room to room, still waited for me to sit before he settled.

I reached down and stroked the fur between his ears. He didn’t wake, but his tail thumped against the cushion.

I thought about the stories I hadn’t written yet. There were always more. A character I’d glimpsed in a grocery store checkout line. A sentence that had come to me while brushing my teeth. A memory from childhood that had resurfaced for no reason. They floated around in my head, waiting their turn.

But lately, I’d felt less urgency. Not because I was tired of writing—never that—but because I’d come to understand something: the stories didn’t need me as much as I once believed. They’d find their way, with or without my hand guiding them.

Fifty-one published. A number I would’ve laughed at ten years ago. Back then, I was just trying to get one acceptance, just one editor to say yes. I remember the first time it happened. I’d been sitting in this same room, though the furniture was different then, and the email had popped up. I’d stared at it for a full minute before opening it, afraid it would disappear if I blinked.

I’d called my sister. She’d cried. I hadn’t, but I’d felt something close.

Now, the acceptances came more often, but the feeling was gentler. Not muted—just settled. Like a well-worn baseball glove that fits the hand perfectly.

***

The tingling deepened, spreading through my torso. I breathed slowly, letting it move. There was no fear. Only a sense of being carried.

I thought about my father. He’d been a quiet man, not one for long conversations. But he’d had a way of sitting in a room that made you feel like everything was steady. When he died, it had been sudden. No warning. No chance for goodbyes. I’d been angry about that for years.

This—whatever this was—felt like the opposite. A slow, gentle letting go. A chance to sit with it, to understand it, to accept it.

I wondered what he would think of my writing. He’d never read any of it. I hadn’t started until after he was gone. But I liked to imagine him picking up one of my stories, reading it in that patient way of his, then nodding once, as if to say, Yeah. That’s about right.

The warmth reached my neck, then the base of my skull. My breathing stayed steady. Remy shifted again, his paw resting lightly against my leg.

I thought about the mornings I’d spent at this laptop, the afternoons napping with Remy, the evenings reading submission guidelines or tinkering with sentences. A small life, maybe. But it had been mine. And it had been enough.

More than enough.

***

The room felt brighter, though my eyes were closed. The birds outside were still chattering, their calls weaving in and out of each other. A breeze rustled the branches, and for a moment I imagined I could feel it on my skin.

The tingling reached the top of my head, then softened, spreading outward like ripples on water.

I felt myself loosening. Not falling, not drifting—just loosening. The way a knot gives way after years of being pulled tight.

I thought of the half-finished story on the laptop. The machinist with the old boots. Maybe someone would find it someday. Maybe not. It didn’t matter.

What mattered was that I’d written. That I’d lived long enough to find the thing that made me feel most like myself. That I’d shared it with the world, piece by piece.

Remy let out a small sigh, the kind he makes when he’s fully settled. I smiled, or felt myself smile.

The warmth enveloped me completely.

I felt myself fading.

And it was okay.