Small Things, part I.

It’s such a small thing, forgetfulness. Such a tiny moment of mental lapse, barely a blip on the Radar of Grand Schemes. It’s so small a thing, and yet when it passes the memories that come roaring in to fill the space are torrential and crushing.

I had a small lapse in memory today. I started a new job and for a split second I forgot that I couldn’t celebrate it with my husband. Just a fraction of a second – not even a full tick of the clock. But then I remembered and I thought I would drown in the grief. The memory of all the first days on the job I’ve celebrated with him in the past led the charge, followed closely by all the first times of anything we’ve shared. On hot on the heels of that came all the firsts that will pass without his smile and congratulations in the future. The first Thanksgiving, that will be next month. The first birthday to go by without a fond kiss – also next month. The first time I really need a hug from the only person I’ve counted on to give them to me over the last 10 years. That was today.

Such a small thing to forget. Such a small thing. Like a bullet, this small thing is.

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A While.

There’s nothing quite like that moment when your husband tells you he fell out of love with you “a while” ago.

On the one hand, it’s a punch in the gut, but on the other, it’s kind of a relief. It’s a relief to know that you weren’t imagining it. That it wasn’t your fault. That the dead weight you’ve been suffocating under IS actually that elephant in the room. Only it’s dead now. Like your marriage.

Of course on the other hand, you now have a two tons of rotting pachyderm to dig yourself out from under, so that doesn’t sound like fun. And honestly, I can’t think about that right now. It’s too much. My brain literally won’t even go there. It’s like, “Oh no, this is fine. It’s warm and heavy like a comforter. Just leave it. I like the smell of dead elephant. Really.”

So I’m just going to dwell in the relief for a bit. I’m going to languish in the absolute euphoria that comes from knowing this was not my fault. I’ve been rowing a boat for two people, expending all that energy, and I just looked behind me and it turns out there’s no one there. I can rest. I can stop fighting, and oh god does that sound so, so sweet.

At some point I’m going to realize that the tears streaming down my face mean something. Eventually, I’m going to want to tear things apart with my bare hands – I can feel it there, in the back of my mind, waiting for when it feels right. But not right now. Right now, I’m going to cradle that sad, frustrated, confused little heart of mine and whisper: It’s not you. It was never you. You are worthy. You are loved. I’ve got you and it’s going to be okay.

I don’t know what okay looks like, but I know it’s out there somewhere… waiting for me.

Pushing

What is this thing inside us that keeps the love from coming out? This wall of silence and suffering and stoic fucking absolutism that stops us up like a cork in a bottle? While we’re pushing down on all our pain and despair and rage and frustration, sitting on it like a fretful traveler on a suitcase, we’ve trapped the love inside, too.

What is this thing inside that keeps us from speaking? This miserable gag of fear and pain and nagging fucking worry that smothers us like a pillow? While we’re holding our breath and clenching our jaw like some cliche out of a horror film, our screams are leaking out like blood – slow and sluggish and so dark.

Here we are, skirting the edge of something deep and black and elementally terrifying and you’re there, I know you are. But something inside us keeps us from calling out to each other. I’m here! Hold my hand – if you fall I’ll fall with you. I don’t know what that means. I wish I could catch you, but I can’t. But I’ll fall, too.

I’ll fall with you. If you let me.

The Painted Heart, part III

My heart is painted over with the lacquered armor of more battles than I can now count, more love than I was ever entitled to receive, and more sadness than is polite to discuss. My painted heart is both broken and solid, heavy with reality.

It’s a trinket, I’m realizing now. A novelty to everyone who’s seen it. A sentimental treasure only to me. That’s human nature, isn’t it? We each have to find the glue to put the pieces back together again, chips and holes and new paint all part of the “charm” until you can either cherish it or can’t stand to look at it. But certainly you can’t expect anyone else to love it in the way you do.

My painted heart is in pieces. I don’t know how I will look at it ever again.

The Painted Heart, part II

You see it there in the window, all glossy cherry red and plump to bursting. In your hand, it fits like it was made to go there and oh the weight of it! You just know you could feel that forever – no forgetting it was in your pocket, not ever.

The paint is hard and shiny, and layered on coat after coat. The most recent application hides the imperfections of the last – dings, nicks and scratches all easily filled in with another coat of paint. There’s a flaw¬†in the side – a place where the material is malformed, but it’s hardly noticeable, you see. And the overall effect is so very lovely. You just have to have it.

You slip it in your pocket. It pulls your jacket just a tad off center. You were right – you never forget the weight of it. Not once.

The Painted Heart, part I

When I was younger, a breaking heart felt like a rend in the universe. I could feel my heart cracking down the middle like a great boulder, the echoes like thunder in the wind.

Now, though, a breaking heart feels more like an old abandoned barn. Peeling and crackled paint flaking off and falling, silent, into soft, loamy earth. The creak and whine of withered boards straining against rusty nails, struggling to maintain a shape as outdated and antiquated as anything from the last century. Lonely and bleak, a skeleton of a frame waiting for the next storm to blow it down.

Boots

From time to time, I might post old pieces that I want to keep track of, or that I think are worth revisiting. This was originally written 27 August, 2012.


A decade ago, the word “boots” would have meant ankle-height, black leather with a low, chunky heel. Something stylish and comfortable that I could stand in at work for eight or more hours. And that would be the end of this piece. Okay, if I’m being totally honest, it might have included a brief fantasy about knee-high, laced up, stiletto-heeled, these-boots-are-made-for-sexin’ footwear.

Now, though, I see a pair of tan, size 13, authorized ACU boots.

I see long laces of 550 cord pulled tight and clasped with the little spring-loaded gizmo I don’t know the name for and the excess hidden in the top. Or I see the laces ends come out of hiding, and the clasp move to the end while fingers pull slack into each section. If there is such a thing as ceremony in this house, it might be this twice-daily ritual of lacing and unlacing the tan, rough-side-out cattle hide leather, side-vented regulation army boots. They go on last at the feet, but they signify an invisible mantle that settles over the head of the wearer – the attitude of the professional soldier. At home in the evening, they come off first and it’s like everybody relaxes at the same time – not a Soldier now, just Dad and Husband.

I love to see them sit neatly side by side at the door, brushed clean and softly slouched at the top. It means the feet that go in them are home, propped up bare on the couch or getting exceptionally stinky as they sweat in tennis shoes behind the lawn mower. Maybe they’re tapping against the bottom rung of the stool, in time to the music that plays over the work bench. The boots are relaxed and so am I.

Sometimes I see row after row of them, lined up, stiff and straight. They’re clean, of course, but also worn and tired, scuffed smooth by a year of ¬†desert sand. I hear the sound they make, dozens clapping the ground in unison, a staccato rhythm of discipline and business. I see them in formation and it comforts me, those pylons in an upside-down sea of digital camouflage, marking individual pillars of soldiers. It scares me a little, too. They all look the same, but I know they are different.

I know a woman with boots in her house that will never be worn again. She leaves them by the door anyway because she can’t bear to put them away. That strikes me as both ridiculously self-indulgent and unutterably sad. I can’t seem to reconcile my need for pragmatic sensibility with the feeling that there is an encyclopedic wealth of subtext contained within a pair of boots.

I’m fearful of the day when the boots get put away for good. They’re our link to a way of life that defines our existence and a vernacular that has fused with our consciousness. What happens when those small daily ceremonies no longer bookend our day? What happens to old boots that have lost their purpose? Where to Army boots go to retire?

And will I ever think of “boots” again without first seeing my spouse, my partner in uniform? I hope not.