Another Time: Evolution of the Break-up

I remember the first time it happened. I walked the nearly two miles back to my house. Smiling as the rain drops mixed with tears. Feeling cleansed of the pressure and uncertainty of young confused love. It was a tight grip that I couldn’t shake loose. But I had escaped its powerful, intoxicating aura. That halo that sits atop the world when love is right but comes crashing down in a ring of fire when it’s wrong was gone. I was free. Or so I thought.

I remember another time. I asked him politely to bring me my tooth brush. “Why do you need your tooth brush he asked? You’re not coming back are you?” Of course I lied. I surveyed his bedroom for a final time and tucked my toothbrush neatly into my jacket pocket. I grab his face with both hands, splaying my fingers lovingly along his cheek bones as I pulled him into me for a passionate kiss. “I’ll see you soon”. As I descended the wooden steps of his house, I looked back and waved and knew that was the last time I would see him. I was free. Or so I thought.

I remember another time. It was our first fight and our last. In the wee hours of the morning he demanded I pack my things and leave. I looked at the three month old in my arms and cried. Later that morning, I walked into my mothers’ bedroom noticeably laden with cancer medications. She pulled me into her arms, now frail from chemo and radiation, and held me until the tears stopped. My mother held me, I held my son, and at that moment, I knew I was free. Or so I thought.

I remember another time. I was prepared for a fight. How dare him! He pulled in front of my building and I was down those stairs so fast it was as if the devil himself were chasing me. I swiftly threw the dumbbell through his window. I taunted him to come out. “I dare you,” I chided. He did not dare. It must have been the look of frenzied anger and anguish in my eyes. As he drove away I prayed that I was free. But I knew that I was not.

I remember another time. I didn’t see it coming. I sat in the ladies room outside of the wedding we were to attend together reading and rereading the text I had just received. I don’t think I am the man for you it said. Apparently, I responded, you’re not a man at all. I held my head high and gracefully walked back into the reception, grabbing a glass of champagne as I rejoined my party. “I just got dumped at a wedding!” I said jokingly. “How ironic!” The tears could wait. They would wait.

I don’t want to be free, I just look forward to the moment when there will be no more “another times”.