Letter to a Friend
Written February 4, 2020
Today I filed for divorce. I went to the courthouse, walked into the Prothonotary's Office, and handed an elderly gentleman with white hair and a yellow tie my forms. The office smelled of breath mints and dust. It was drizzling outside, as I had requested of God and Mother Nature who kindly obliged, and I walked through the drizzle back to the car.
Strangely enough, everything was entirely unremarkable.
My stomach had been churning and a knot of anxiety sat in my chest; as I left, the knot started to relax.
My friend, who is amazing, had gone to the courthouse with me, and we chatted on the drive home about everyday things - work, family, etc. And then she went back to work, and I drove to my soon-to-be-ex's house to give him ("serve him") the papers. We stood in his living room and talked for a moment, and then he said, "I'm sorry. If I could do it all over again, I would run to you. I would choose you."
I nodded and left, because we cannot do it all over again.
Now my chest cradles a great, warm sadness that I know I'll need to carry for awhile.
That was my unremarkable, life-altering day, and I wanted to tell you about it because a part of me wants to wail at the sky, and another part of me feels such relief I am breathless. What amazing creatures we are - to be able to hold such weighty things within us all at once.
I share this letter because for a long time I have been silent and journeying. I am still journeying, yet I believe the time to be silent is slowly coming to an end. So here is where I must begin.
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