Love letter # 28
I am no saint; I know there were days when bitterness almost had me by the throat. I would listen to my fellow divorcees and I would share their complaints. But not for long – because I could not forget that things in our house were never that bad.
Yes, we ended. Yes, we bled. But no – we did not use the knives.
And now, years down the track, when certain things trigger me, I recall you with a warm buzz.
So much of me is you in trousers. The things I do, the food I buy, the bed I still sleep in. All that time we had – it didn’t just fade to nothing. Okay, so I no longer sport that band of gold – but I know where it is and some nights I hold it in the palm of my hand just to honour everything.
You married a boy but you left a man. In some ways I almost owe you my adulthood.
And of course, the biggest lesson was the end. Had to be really; because I took you for granted. I assumed you would always be there to open the door. I sure learned.
The empty hallway, the crushing quiet when I clicked out the light, the freezing cold space beside me. I thought some terrible things in that abrupt and awful vacuum.
Maybe now I’m wearing rosy glasses, forgetting the shit we both tried to deny, but I’d rather that than carry round a heart made of stone.
I’m not writing to woo you back or any such foolishness; I’m writing to honour you. To say a simple, if somewhat poetic thank you. The fact that we had it all, (or deluded ourselves that we did), keeps me from the common sourness.
You showed me the world in your eyes, in your incredible tenderness, and in doing so, you cut the chains.
I can but pray that I gave you something half as wonderful.