Have you ever had a pet, say a cat or dog, and they died, and then for awhile, every time you turned around they were starkly absent? You know, all the familiarity, the things you shared.
You’d sit on the couch and expect your friend to come lie beside you. Or, you’d habitually go into dinnertime mode, and then realize you were alone for dinner. Or, you’d walk down the sidewalk that was part of your normal exercise routine, and be hit with the fact that your walk partner was missing.
I hate this. The familiar triggers memory and memory ignites pangs of loss.
And so it goes as I adjust to the fact that my husband wants a divorce. Simple stuff, just hurts. I snuggle into the window seat with my nephew who is here for one last sleep-over. He is delighting in watching the critters outside, and as I share this space with him I have to yank myself away from tears; all the hours that my husband and I did this same gazing out, are now solidly in the past and nevermore. And I look out at the plants and the rocks that we’ve placed here and there, and know that I must walk away from my dreams of this garden and this home.
I don’t want to walk in Discovery Park anymore; my husband was my navigator and companion there and I ache when he is absent from my side. Restaurants, too. The places we discovered together, Hazelwood and Volterra and geez, even the grocery store where we used to design meals together. Oh. And ReStore; I stopped there the other day and it was all wrong, with no home to be restoring and no partner in such endeavors.
My husband is so blithe about this transition, like, girl, just move on, it will be good for you. He’s always been one for just throwing things out. My brother is like that too. Life begins to feel too cluttered or complex and next thing you know, my brother has built a bonfire and started tossing things on it. Which has always seemed to me like trying to send a message to the heavens: “I have no need for attachments, they weigh me down. I set myself free.”
In the meantime, the heavens are saying, “Well actually, this fire you rage is a temporary blaze. The flames will die down, the embers will fade, and there will be ashes blowing about messily in the wind. You may be left with a sense of freedom. But this pyre actually is not your key.”
Like those soda pop contests, where you pop the bottle cap and underneath it says, “You are a Loser. Please try again.”
Photo by ne* under creative commons license.
{ 3 comments… read them below or add one }
Ouch. I remember the divorce of my parents. My mom felt the same way. Except she was very angry.
I lost both my parents over the past two years (me at 42) and I remember them through noises and phrases I hear more so than places (since I no longer live where I grew up). Memories of my Dad come to me on the baseball field.
Keep writing about it.
Definitely twitter worthy . . .
Totally Twitter-worthy. Thank you for calling our attention to this beautiful post and to your blog in general. I am recently divorced and it is a balm to the soul to read how others are dealing with this process in all of its painful complexity. Love and light to you during this transition…
Tim,
After my mother died it was years before I finally did not think things such as, “I’ve got to tell Mom about this” and “This would be a perfect birthday gift for Mom.” All those subtle and surprising little bits of life that weave past and future together, oh my.