(Note: the first draft of this post was a little more
chill, but I’m in the middle of watching Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless
Mind so, yeah.)
It’s hard to find any hope about love. I’m impatient
for the grief to be over, but about once a day, it sirens out. If it’s too
close to work time, I just talk it through—I call BFF-Formerly-Sweetie and have
Ten Minutes of Sadness. She listens to me loop though the whys and what ifs and
whats nexts.
But if there’s enough time before work, I wail. Wail
and drive or wail from under the weighted blanket or next to my In Full Bloom
flowers-of-the-world thousand piece puzzle. The sadness wails out from my guts,
harsh but self-loving, excruciating but productive.
It comes from my guts because that’s where my soul
lives, and my soul has lost one of its dearest mates. The Shy One sent me off
in search of My Person, but that’s just not how I’m built. I belong to him, as
much as I belong to the rest of the characters in this story. As much as I belong
to the spring azaleas or the Hope Diamond or the cats.
Someday, with distance and time that belonging-to-him
will feel safe again, and I’ll love things for the way they were, not for how
we wished they could be. Grace. Forward motion. Lavish and abundant and loud and
beautifully vexing love with someone or someones who fit. But my soul says not
yet. My soul whispers “come back” like a prayer.
Maybe The Shy One’s soul was only meant for one mate.
Maybe that’s the unbridgeable ocean between us. It’s not for me to know.
For now, tiny steps toward the brazen and sexy person
I was when he met me. One knot a week, and then back to my puzzle and my
soothing movie podcasts. I’m proud of this knot, little and ordinary but
infinite.
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