It’s a Wednesday morning in the middle of April. I am still living a life that has nothing to do with my dreams or aspirations and everything to do with a past I thought I’d left behind a decade ago. The sunlight coats the bark of the trees. The leaves form a wall of green. My heart feels like a piece of granite.
I meditated this morning as I do most every morning. I came to the conclusion that I must not say anything that isn’t life affirming to him. It’s not my place.
He sits in his chair and hiccups loudly and thinks of things to ask me to do.
I try and try and try to accept but nothing in me wants to accept this. In that way, this is exactly like being in prison — that feeling of deep and unrelenting dissatisfaction. I don’t want to be in this place with this person. But here I am. At least in prison, there’s an end to the sentence. I’m a rat caught in a maze but there’s no solution.
As soon as I come home, the sadness sets in. I go upstairs into “my” room and look outside the bay window. It’s like an emerald cathedral. Something about springtime, the silky air, the heady scent of flowers, of fecundity, of life. And I’m trapped in the bell jar but without Sylvia’s trenchant eye. There’s a ghost here. The ghost of a man I used to love.
Two things I can tell you about that man: he was the one person I’d have wanted to be with in the event of an apocalypse. And he was the one person I would have trusted to help me murder anyone who harmed our daughter. And of all the people in the world, he was the one I wanted at my side during my cancer ordeal. But that man is gone. That laughing man with the twinkling brown eyes, his apple cheeks red and his infectious giggle. That man is gone. And this one in his place — helpless, cantankerous, demanding, pathetic, and needy. This one breaks my fucking heart.