September 6, 2011

"Gestation"

It’s been nine months since my ex left—a gestation period of solo boredom punctuated by alternate bouts of sheer joy and panic.

The time we went searching for a restaurant one night in the South of France, the twilight seeping slowly down the sides of the richest indigo sky you’ve ever seen: orange and purple, and no clouds at all. Our steps clacked on the cobblestone and in the distance, a guitar and a voice like a cello. We searched the clawed streets for bouillabaisse, ducking under potted ferns and wrought iron signs advertising shoe repair and flowers for sale. The air was warm; I remember that.

And perhaps it’s the weather—this stillness is the same as that night. But I admit I disremember a lot about my marriage; only now have the forgotten shards of why I was happy pierced through the assuredness I needed to divorce.

My boyfriend says my ex was a jerk, but that’s only because I’ve only told him the bad stuff—how he wasn’t there for me when my father died, how he drank too much, smoked too much, complained too much.

The ghost of my ex is in my kitchen right now asking me if I know how much he loves me as he painstakingly flours and breads the parmesan croquettes I asked him to make. His grandmother’s recipe in long, cursive letters on a slate blue card. Grinning from ear to ear, he takes the ghost of me in his arms and nuzzles his nose inside my ear, smooshing a stubbled kiss on my cheek.

Do you know I haven’t mourned him at all? Haven’t missed him at all? Does that make me a bad person?

Anniversaries are for remembering. Nine months ago, he left. I began this life alone after ten years of togethering. I wonder about him; where he is, how he is, want to tell him something about how thankful I am for all he was to me. 

We finally found a dim patio next to an alleyway. Warm light filtered from inside through the dirty window, poured over the checkered tablecloth. Our table wobbled. Our rosé sloshed. There were snails in shells the size of small pebbles that we picked out with sewing pins and whole fish cooked in parchment paper with chunks of lemon. We switched to red and got good and drunk. We didn’t make love again, passed out instead with his hand on my hip in the house next to the vineyard, in that stuffy room.

What are the things we remember and why? Where is the truth? Was my ex an asshole, or was he flawed just as I was flawed—telling him about wanting things I shouldn’t have wanted, speaking half-truths because I couldn’t see the whole?

And isn’t this life about growing together? Is this impossible? What will I want ten years from now when what I want right now is the opposite from ten years ago?

Tonight I am a planet circling around myself, remapping memory—the landscapes of my past. To tell the truth, I hardly recognize myself. Who was that woman sleeping next to that man, dreaming of watermelon and Skype? And who am I now, drawn to another man who I barely know but feel so drawn to, the core of me magnetized to the core of him?

I can’t guarantee I won’t divorce again. But there is yet time to make more mistakes, to keep walking this terrain searching for a self I recognize and her perfect companion. Tonight I throw my head back, become a whirling dervish praying for love to guide my way.