Panic Mode

My head is pounding, my pulse is racing. I can't remember the last time I had a decent night's sleep. At least it's almost over. One more test, one last paper to turn in, and then I'm finished.

Until next semester. And the one after that. And the one after that....

STOP. Thinking about the future isn't in the schedule. Focus on the index cards. Focus. Focus!

Can't focus; I'm too tired. Maybe some coffee first, then back to the cards.

I can hear the clock ticking, wasting precious seconds. What time is it? Where does the time go?

I need to finish that paper. And study for the test. Then, vacation. I can almost feel the beach beneath my toes, hear the sound of the waves when I close my eyes.... 

NO. There's no time to sleep. Index cards. Paper. Focus! 

But first, another cup of coffee.

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For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week, Tara Roberts gave me this prompt: It's nothing a second cup of coffee won't cure.. I gave Michael this prompt: "The heart has its reason which reason knows nothing of." -- Blaise Pascal

The Guitar

He thought he had placed the dusty black case in the far corner of the closet, where no one would see it. But the grandkids, they get into everything, even by accident. The little one, the one that looked so much like her grandmother that it sometimes hurt to look at her, asked what it was, where it came from.

And so, he said, simply and sweetly, "That's my guitar."

He didn't tell her that, along with a small bag of clothing, the guitar was the only thing he brought with him to the city when he left his parents' farm at 17. He didn't tell her about how ridiculous he was, thinking that it would make him enough money to cover his rent.

He didn't tell her that, along with the two jobs, he played in dingy bars and dirty coffee houses just enough to to be able to take one college class at a time, occasionally with a little bit left over for replacement strings. He didn't tell her that it was how he met her grandmother, late one night, in one of those places, now long lost to time.

He didn't tell her how once the kids -- her father, her aunt -- came, he stopped playing out at all, and only occasionally took the guitar out of its case. And he certainly didn't tell her that, now with her grandmother gone and arthritis starting to kick in, he took the guitar out of the closet every once in a while and cried, a combination of sad tears over what was lost, and happy tears over so much gained.

He just said, simply and sweetly, "That's my guitar."

One of the boys came over and asked if he still played. "Not so much anymore," he said.

"Do you think you can teach me, Pop?"

He smiled, and opened the case.

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For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Allyson challenged me with "'That's what livin' in the city does, man. Stick your song in your throat.' -- George Carlin" and I challenged Tara Roberts with "'We don’t get angry because the glass is broken, we get angry because we thought the glass would never break.' -- Robina Courtin (Buddhist nun)."

A Twist of Fate

The paperwork wouldn't be finalized for another couple of days, but as they were leaving the courthouse, the lawyer explained that that the judge had signed off on it, and now, all she had to do was wait to receive her final, certified, copy in the mail. She did, however, have to go back to the office to get her check: the last remaining joint account cashed out, the lawyer's fee deducted, and the rest -- a significantly smaller sum than she was expecting -- to be deposited into her account. Maybe she would buy some new shoes this weekend, to celebrate her new freedom.

In the car, windows down and radio blaring, she silently debated whether to use the drive-through or park and go into the lobby. The line of cars at the drive-through teller made her decision for her, and so she parked and walked inside. She was standing in the long line, absentmindedly filling out her deposit slip, when she heard a voice she recognized.

She tried and tried to place the voice. And then, just like that, a flood of memories. High school. A few parties here and there, some friends in common. He was in her World Lit class Junior year, sat in the back of the room. He was quiet and brooding, and back then, she had thought it was absolutely adorable.

She looked up from her thoughts just in time to see a flash of metal and a voice -- the voice she recognized -- yelling at them all to get down on the ground.

This was not the way she had intended her new life to begin.



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For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Fran challenged me with "Freshly divorced, you're waiting in line when you spot someone you had a crush on in High School. Write about it. " and I challenged Diane with "Go back through your archives (we all have them) and find your most embarrassing piece of adolescent writing -- 8th grade or so. Rewrite it in your "adult" voice."

Rapunzel

As soon as she got off the plane and collected her luggage – just a few small bags – she hailed a yellow taxicab to take her to the Grandmother’s apartment, not knowing that the Grandmother had sent her car. The taxi pulled up to the massive stone building overlooking the park. The doorman stared at her quizzically – this was not a building for children, even teenagers. Perhaps eventually, he would get used to her presence there.

She took the elevator up to the top floor, walked to the door, and knocked. There was no answer, no sound from within. She knocked again, to no avail. So, she sat down on the floor to wait. Some time later – she wore no watch – an older man in a dark suit exited the elevator in front of her and spoke her name, in a questioning manner, but they both knew there was no question. He was the Grandmother’s driver, and had been tasked with collecting her from the airport.

The driver fumbled around with his key ring for a moment, and then, having settled on the right one, opened the door and grabbed her largest suitcase in a fluid, almost-effortless movement. She followed him into the apartment, and then down a long hallway filled with expensive-looking impressionist paintings in impressive mahogany frames. Towards the back, he opened a door to reveal a bedroom that appeared to have gone untouched for years, and motioned for her to go in. The driver stepped into the room just enough to deposit her suitcase next to the door, told her that the Grandmother would be home shortly, and left, just as quickly. She heard the key turning in the front door’s lock almost before she could react.

She didn’t know whether she was expected to unpack her belongings, and instead, sat down on the chair in the corner to look out the small window. After a minute, she opened the window to hear the sounds of the strange city below. She heard car horns and the squeal of brakes from the intersection below. She could hear people talking and music playing – not the type of music the Grandmother would approve of, but the music of young people, the music the other kids in school preferred. She was so close to that freedom, but now, locked in the tower, she felt so far away.


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For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Melissa R challenged me with "Include the following in your story: a teenager, a painting, a cab, and a Salt-n-Pepa song." and I challenged Diane with "peach moonshine and glow bracelets"

It Could Have Been Different

(cross-posted at blah blah blog)

As one of the editors of IndieInk, I again agreed to participate in the weekly writing challenges. This week, my challenge was from my co-editor James Whitaker, who challenged me to take my pick from the following writing prompts: "unthinkable." "somewhere...out there." "it's never meant to last..." "tomorrow." "they'll never know..." "it could have been different."

The choice was easy for me.

You see, I have an unhealthy fascination with the movie Sliding Doors. Before I understood anything about Schrödinger's cat or parallel universes, I found myself completely fascinated by the concept that one little chance occurrence – whether the movie’s protagonist caught the elevator or the train, or had to wait for the next one – could totally change a life.

As a result, I find myself constantly thinking about how things could have been different. “If only I had caught the earlier train. . . ” “If only I hadn’t accepted the invitation . . .” ”If only I had not gotten in the car. . .” “If only I had made the call. . .” It’s an exhausting way to live, trying to figure out which decision was the one that derailed everything – or worse, trying to augur whether any decision you make is going to be the one that changes your life. And, ultimately, things that seem inconsequential have deeper import; things that seem important turn out to be meaningless in the end.

Case in point: New Year’s Eve. I had spent the entire day (and the day before) catching up with an old friend, which mostly involved drinking and talking, then drinking some more. In the wee morning hours, I found myself getting up off of the couch, taking out my contact lenses, and diving face first into bed. But something held me back, and, as a result, I made the decision to go back out to the living room to check on him.

My entire life changed as a result of that split second decision. And I am completely aware that it could have been different.

Stereotypes and Self-righteousness

(cross-posted at blah blah blog)

As one of the editors of IndieInk, I agreed to participate in one of its weekly writing challenges. This week, my challenge was from Sir: “He/She placed the stereotype on the anvil and began hammering it into something sharp and deadly that could be used to open the minds of the self-righteous.” And, while that’s poetic and all, it doesn’t really fit with this blog or my writing style. But it does lead into the idea of stereotypes and self-righteousness -- and, with that, a story.

When I was in my last semester of law school, I worked as an unpaid intern in the county public defender’s office. (I've mentioned it before, in passing.) I had great, lofty goals about what I would be doing there – the kind of lofty goals that only a 22 year old with no real-world experience could have. Mostly, they were along the line of defending the wrongfully accused, reforming the criminal justice system, abolishing the death penalty, etc., etc. Oh, the naïveté of youth . . .

The internship was jointly supervised between the assistant chief of the office and one of our criminal law professors. We had a classroom session each week, where we learned, essentially, the basics of how to practice law as criminal defense attorneys. And during the week, we were required to work a certain number of hours at the office. In bigger cases, we were required to work under the actual attorneys – and generally, they were busy enough to be thankful for whatever help we could provide. In smaller misdemeanor cases, the clients could agree to let us act as their lead attorneys, with assistance from the supervising attorneys.

Early on in the semester, the professor asked us what kind of cases we were uncomfortable with. My answer, as an upper-middle class sheltered suburban girl was easy: I wanted nothing to do with domestic battery. I didn’t want to envision a world where men hit women, where families were anything less than happy and stable. And, of course, if a fight escalated to the point where an arrest was made, in my mind it was clear that the man must have hit the woman. Accordingly, I, perhaps self-righteously, did not want to defend those men.

Of course my professor saw that as an engraved invitation to assign me to a pretty horrible domestic battery case. And lucky for me, the defendant had agreed to let me be his lead attorney. Worse yet, even though it was a misdemeanor, my client had been sitting in jail for days, because the arrest was a violation of his probation, and if he plead guilty or lost at trial, he was facing mandatory jail time.

My client was a stereotype: a young black offender with a history of violence and drugs. I remember going to the county jail to see him. I was frightened out of my mind. I remember the security, the sound of the doors closing behind me, the fear as I was led to a private interview room where I was to meet with my client – alone, without any of the guards to protect me. When my client was brought to me in shackles, I was scared to death.

I finally relaxed enough to start talking about the case with him – whether he would be interested in a plea deal if it meant that he would have a reduced sentence. But he kept maintaining that he was innocent. I didn’t believe it, not for a second. Not with his violent background. Not with the photo in the case file of his cute little girlfriend with bruises on her face and arms. I firmly believed that his desire to fight the charge was posturing, or a fear of having to do real jail time.

But then I remembered that I was there to do a job. I also remembered, from our classroom sessions, that we needed to examine the facts of the case carefully, avoid responding instinctively and jumping to conclusions, and instead, use our intellect. And so, I started digging through the files, interviewing witnesses, piecing together a defense. First I researched my client's alibi for the night of the attack, but it was a bit shaky.

But then the tide turned: I found out that the alleged victim, my client’s ex-girlfriend, was also the mother of his child, and that she had been pressuring my client to sign away his parental rights to the child. I also found out that the officer that helped her fill out her statement was her new boyfriend. The officer-boyfriend had taken the photo of her injuries, handwritten the affidavit detailing the fight, had her sign it, and one of his co-officers witness it.

After I interviewed her, the prosecutor dropped the charges against my client.

Do I think that the ex-girlfriend was a victim of violence? Unequivocally, yes. After all, it was before digital cameras, and the police report had that horrible, horrible picture in it. On the other hand, do I think that my client was innocent of the charges? I’m still not sure, but I am firmly convinced that the outcome of the case was correct.

If I learned anything from the case, it’s that not everything is what it appears to be. And I am certainly glad that I opened my mind enough to prevent stereotypes, prejudices, self-righteousness and biases from getting in the way of doing my job.

Moving forward, looking back

I almost never think of you at all anymore, but, for some reason, you're on my mind right now.

Maybe it's the fact that I was in your neighborhood today. On the train, and then, on the bus, I kept looking over my shoulder, waiting for you to materialize out of nowhere. It made me nervous. What if you were angry about the way I stopped responding to your calls, your emails, your texts. What if you glared at me? Or worse yet, what if you looked at me with sadness or remorse -- the same forlorn, lost look that spoke to me in the first place? Here's the funny thing -- I know I did nothing wrong. Turnabout is fair play, and I did nothing to you that you didn't do to me first, worse. So you have no right to make me feel this way.

Or maybe it was because of the hurricane brewing out at sea. Remember our hurricane, the one that almost ruined our second date? Instead, we just sat inside and talked and talked and talked. I wonder if it would have turned out differently if we hadn't been stuck inside together for all those hours at the very beginning. Would my guard have stayed up longer -- long enough to keep you from worming your way in, pretending you were something I needed, and then running away?

I know it's over, way over. And today, these thoughts of you were just a momentary detour, a quick glance back in my rearview mirror. Next time I look up, they'll be even further behind me.

Solstice

You and I, we've reached our solstice. I am finally at the furthest distance out of your orbit. Can I resist the gravitational pull?

I'm getting stronger, day by day. I need you less, I want you less.

I've been waiting for this moment. I haven't felt this alive in ages. It's as if the blood had stopped, but now, it's pouring back, like a dam has broken.

I went outside in the dead of night to stare at the eclipse. It was freezing, and even in the middle of downtown, breathtakingly quiet. The moon was blood red.

It's funny that the longest, darkest night is also the brightest.

The Deep End

(Also posted at IndieInk, December 2010.)

It was hot and we were restless. We roamed around, looking for trouble. The swimming pool caught his eye. He grabbed my hand and pulled me in that direction.

“It’s been closed for hours. We’ll get in trouble.”

“Not if we’re quiet.”

“I don’t have a bathing suit.”

He looked at me with a wicked grin.

“Or towels.”

He shrugged, and then took off his clothes and jumped in. I hesitated, but then stripped down to my bra and panties. “Really?” he laughed, and then splashed me. I jumped in the deep end.

The water was refreshing at first, still slightly warm from the day’s sun. I floated aimlessly on my back, lost in thought, while he swam up and down the length of the pool. Occasionally I would steal a glance at his muscular arms.

We stayed in the pool for a long time, too long. My teeth started chattering; my body shivered. He noticed and came up to me, grabbing me in a bear hug. I had never noticed how strong he was, how warm he was, before that moment. He kissed my neck and shoulder; I lay my head against his chest, and time stopped. I didn’t want to be the one to end the magic.

Finally, without words, he grabbed my hand and led the way out of the water, to the locker room, all the way to the back to the showers. He turned the hot water on, and held me up against the wall, kissing me, more and more aggressively. I could feel the cool tile pressing into my back. I held on to him tightly, not because I thought he’d drop me, but because I wanted to stay in that embrace and melt into him. “This is what letting go feels like,” I thought to myself.

All these years later, on hot nights when I can't sleep, this is the memory that fills my head. I wonder where he is now, what he is doing. I wonder if he's lying awake somewhere, feeling the heat, remembering. I hope it's one of those things he can't forget either.

Sleeping In

(Also posted at IndieInk, July 2011.)


I lingered in bed this morning because of the holiday. I reflexively reached my hand across to the other side, forgetting that you're not there anymore. Remember all the hours we spent here? Do you think about it at all? For me, on days like this, it's like you never left. Your ghost lingers -- the ghost of us lingers. It haunts me.

I was never entirely sure that I loved you until the day you left. I suspected, but I was never certain until that instant. Maybe it's because I only really love things that are too broken to salvage, like the furniture I insist on rescuing from my neighbors' trash or the ratty old sweater that my mom wore when I was a kid. I see the most beauty in the imperfections and the history that they represent. And so, only when I had a complete historical narrative of our past and present and future could I see that it was, indeed, love.

It's more than that, though: I only knew that I loved you when I knew that it would never be. I only love the unattainable, the mysterious, the forbidden. I don't like realities -- the Mondays and Tuesdays and Wednesdays and Thursdays, the rote, the routine, the mundane. I like the Fridays and Saturdays and Sundays, the late nights and late mornings and the lazy afternoons, the departure from the norm and the potential for the unexpected. And so, I love the holidays. I just loved them a little bit more when you were here too.

Running away

I pretended that I was asleep until I heard the sound of your key in the lock. As soon as the coast was clear, I got up from the bed, walked into the closet, grabbed my backpack, and started putting all of my clothes in it. I didn't have much at the time, but still, there wasn't a lot of room in the bag. So I went to the kitchen and grabbed a grocery bag. I put as much stuff in it as I could fit.

With every echo, every noise, I had to catch my breath, waiting for you to storm back into the house, to ask what I was doing. But you didn't, and I was in the clear.

It felt like an eternity, but I was finished packing within 10 minutes. I thought about making the bed, the way you always had me do it every morning before we left the house, despite the fact that I always argued that it was wasted effort. "Fuck it," I thought, and left it exactly the way it was.

I grabbed my car keys and headed to the door, not entirely certain of where I would be going next, or whether you would try to come after me. I wasn't sure you cared enough to follow, but I was entirely sure that you'd be angry. I still hated making you angry. I shuddered at the thought.

I locked the door from the inside, pulled it shut, and left. The sun was shining and the sky was blue. I knew I'd be okay.

Dear Narcissus

You keep saying you love me. Tell yourself that if it makes you sleep better at night. I know the truth.

You don't love me; you don't even know me. You love it when I do and say the things you like. You love it when I provide a sounding board for your thoughts, your ideas, your philosophies. But you get frustrated when I don't do those things. I am neither a puppet nor an echo chamber. If you loved me, you'd like it when I disagreed with you or did something unexpected. But you don't and that's why this is not love.

If it was love, I'd feel better about the sacrifices I've made for you -- if it was love, they wouldn't feel so much like sacrifices. If it was love, I'd feel supported, not suppressed. If it was love, I'd feel like we were partners or equals. If it was love, it wouldn't feel so much like a one-way street.

If it was love, I'd be searching for a reason to stay and not looking for a reason to leave.

So I repeat: You keep saying you love me. But it's not love.

What you love is the way I make you feel. What you love is the reflection of yourself that you see in my eyes. That's not love -- that's narcissism.

If it was love, you'd let me go.

Little Lies

He grabbed one of my braids in his hand. "With your hair like this," he said, "You look like Pocahontas. Especially since you're so tan."

"Well you know," I retorted, "The Jews and the Native Americans are very close. Practically cousins."

He looked at me quizzically. "Really?"

"No. Not even close. Did you really think I was serious?" I laughed. "Just about the only thing they have in common is that they both tend to vote Democrat."

He pulled me closer. "I would have believed you. I believe most things you say."

"You shouldn't. It's all bullshit. Most everything people say is utter bullshit. And lawyers? We're professional bullshit artists."

"Not you." He touched my face. "Your face is so honest. I trust you."

At that moment, I almost warned him. "Don't believe me, not a word. Nothing I say is true. It's all a lie. Run away before you get hurt." But I kept my mouth shut.

Sometimes silence is the only truth.

The Games We Play

After all these years, I see your name on my caller-ID, and I still don't know if it's a good thing or a bad thing. Do I want it to be you on the line; the same voice it's always been; the same words that weren't enough then and are even less now? Do I want to give up this endless game of cat-and-mouse? Do I want to stop being pursued and for once -- maybe -- just let you win? Or do I want it to end once-and-for-all and just let you fade into oblivion like those who came after you?

The truth is obvious, at least to me. I have a soft spot for you, for this game that we keep playing. It's a chink in my armor. Maybe it's because you knew me before the armor was built. But really, I think it's because the armor was built because of you. And that maybe I designed it with a lock that only fits your key -- yet still, you can't figure out how to open it. But that's because you've always been a blunt instrument, and I've always been a complicated puzzle. That is our greatest tragedy.

Scylla and Charybdis

(Also posted at IndieInk, July 2010.)

You look at me from across the room with a smile in your eyes but not on your face. You approach, and I am conscious of your breath, mere inches from me. You accidentally-on-purpose brush up against me, or touch my hand as I go to gesture. This is the undertow that keeps pulling me in; you are the vortex.

It’s the things unsaid that echo in my mind; the words just underneath the surface. They imprison us; we are imprisoned by them. It’s as if our vocal cords are paralyzed. You can’t say it; I won’t say it. And you’re scared and I’m scared and together we’re even more scared. We can’t admit what everyone else has long since realized. If you would just tell me then I could let you in – I would tear down my walls for you if you would just ask. But you won’t ask, and I am tired of being your second choice.

I clenched my teeth when he touched me for the first time; I shuddered the first time he kissed me. You know how it is: wanting what you can’t have, not wanting what is right there in front of you. I wish I could say that I made the right decision. But you and I both know that’s not how this story ends.

Quitting Time

She walked in to the office that Wednesday knowing that she had a meeting, and knowing exactly how it was going to go, from beginning to end. What they didn’t know was that, when it did, indeed, reach the end, she was finally going to tell them that the job was ridiculous, that they were ridiculous, and that her life was no longer going to be ridiculous. Freedom was to be hers, at last.

Somehow, she managed to refrain from smiling too much, but inside she was brimming with glee at the prospect. No more eighteen-hour days. No more being on call at god-knows-what hour to cater to the bizarre demands of her unreasonable superiors. She would travel, read, sleep – all of the things that she had loved so many years ago and hadn’t had a chance to do in ages.

No more sleepwalking through life. Finally, she would get a chance to live.

Roses

(cross-posted at Blah Blah Blog)

Please don't give me roses.

Don't get me wrong: Roses are a beautiful tradition, a lovely gesture. But they're just that: a gesture. They smack of trying too hard and yet, of not trying hard enough. Of trying to impress with the cost and the ostentatiousness, but not trying to find out who I am or what I really like.

Roses are too lofty, too rife with metaphor, with their soft petals amongst the thorns. They're for apologies, for Mothers' Day and Valentine's Day. They're for pageant winners, prom dates, and brides.

I am none of those things. Give me something from the earth. Give me daisies or tulips or sunflowers that fill the room with color. Give me the gardenias that remind me of my mother. Give me the night-blooming jasmine that scented the evenings of my childhood.

But please don't give me roses.

What Could Have Been But Never Was

I think about him every once in a while. How old he would be by now. (Seven.) Who he would have looked like. (You, but with greenish-blue eyes and freckles like me.) What he would think was funny. (Puns and silly words, like my mom.) What songs he would want me to sing when I put him to sleep. (Elvis, like when my dad used to sing me to sleep.) What he would like to read. (Everything, just like his mom.) But these thoughts bring little solace, and I can’t say the words out loud. No one else knew, you’re long gone, and I’m left with nothing but what-ifs and could-have-beens.

I would have been such a good mom. Everyone always tells me that I’m a natural. I know that it’s a compliment, but sometimes it feels like a smack in the face – no, worse, a kick to the gut. I see my nephew and my cousins’ and friends’ children, and no matter how much I love them – and trust me, I do love them – I am just so helplessly aware that there is one missing, one that I would have loved so much more than any of the others because he would have been mine. My perfect baby.

I know it probably didn’t seem so at first, but I didn’t really fault you for leaving after it happened. We were just so sad together all of the time: even the good moments were tinged with tears. You were so depressed, and I felt so powerless. Plus, on some level, the fact that I had been so scared and was more-than-a-little relieved after it was all over seemed to make you feel hurt and angry, but you never said anything, and instead, suffocated me with your stormy silence. Maybe you were feeling that I wanted it to end the way that it did, that I never wanted to have a child, or worse – that I never wanted to have your child. But it wasn’t that – it was that I felt like we were too young and that we had so much time and that we would be so much more prepared the next time it happened. If only there had been a next time.

I came close to telling someone about it once, but I caught myself in the nick of time. After all, he was our dream – our secret – and then, suddenly, our ghost. And now he’s nothing, and we’re nothing, and more often than I’d like to admit, I’m nothing but a mere specter of what I had been before what could have been but never was.

Broken

(Also posted at IndieInk, April 2010.)

Soon after we started, I told him that I was wounded – that I was damaged – that I was broken. He laughed it off, telling me that I was ridiculous – that I was fine and it was all in my head. But I knew better. I knew that I was not approaching decisions the same way that I had always approached them in the past, that my objectivity was compromised, that all logic had departed. I knew that when no one was looking, when no one was around, I still cried myself to sleep, and that, in those moments, I felt like I was barely keeping it together, like a shattered ceramic figurine, pieced back together and held in place with Scotch tape and Elmer’s glue. I knew that my heart was not listening to my head, and my body was ignoring both of them. Mostly though, I knew that I needed things that I had never needed from anyone before, and that they were the same things that he knew that he wouldn’t be able to give to me, maybe to anyone.

I suppose that somewhere along the way, I made up my mind that, if you care about each other enough, then the hardest part of the relationship is making the decision to stay. And to be quite frank, I’m still not sure that I disagree with that sentiment. But in this case, I approached the relationship like a challenge: I knew everything about the whole situation was wrong, and I made the conscious decision to stay. No – more than that – I made the conscious decision to disappear in him.

In fleeting moments of clarity, I knew that we were just using each other, hiding our pain in each other. And yet, I stayed. I stayed, even though I was almost certain that I didn’t love him. I stayed because he was more broken than I. I stayed because in my confused state, it felt like we could fix each other if we just tried hard enough. Or that I could fix myself if I could just be enough to make him happy.

The funny thing is that I probably would have stayed longer if he’d have let me. And to give credit where credit is due, he finally saw through my charade enough to push me away that one final time. But even now, I get a twinge of feeling that if I could only have done more, given more, been more, that maybe, just maybe, we could have worked – that I could have figured out the way to make it work. And that perhaps I could have found some small personal happiness in striving to make him happy. It’s in those moments that I am most keenly aware of just how broken I still am.

Reflections

(Originally posted at IndieInk, December 2009.)

I don’t know if it’s the weather or the time of year or some combination, or if it’s even any of those things as much as it’s just me, but for some reason I can’t get you off my mind tonight. The cold air, the soaking rain, the reflection of the holiday lights in the black puddles on the pavement all conspire to remind me of that last night. The night that I dressed up in my black wrap dress, wearing the necklace that your mother gave to me the previous weekend, wrapped myself up in my cornflower blue wool coat, and headed out into the cold and damp night, warmed by thoughts of you. The night that I looked at you from across the restaurant, closed my umbrella, and smiled, not knowing what heartbreak was lying in wait for me on the other side of the room.

I don’t know if you know how you broke me. I am, however, certain that I never told you. I never said how I stopped being able to listen to that song that you used to play for me, over and over again, while we’d lie in bed. I never said that I went from cursing god to thanking him for you to cursing him again. I never said that despite all the tragedies I’ve encountered, both large and small, losing you was the metaphorical last straw, the thing that pushed me over the edge into the abyss from which I struggle to escape every single day. Although, in retrospect, maybe I never said any of these things because they’re not true, even if they feel true on a night like tonight.

I don’t know why you came back, all those months later, telling me that you loved me then, that you loved me still. And after that I imagined that you would eventually grab me and kiss me and tell me that it was all going to be okay, that we could make it work, somewhere, somehow. But you never did, and I’ve grown tired of waiting. Would it have made it all better? Would it have made me all better?

I don’t know.