“One day, in retrospect, the years of struggle will strike you as the most beautiful.” ~Sigmund Freud
Sometimes I’m asked
“What’s the hardest part?”.
A funny question,
with a typical answer I suppose.
It’s not that he left.
It’s not that I’m alone.
It’s not that he’s having sex.
It’s not that I’m not.
It’s the house they’re compiling
(the decorations, the table, the bed).
It’s the discussions they’re having / the memories they’re unveiling / the plans they’re making.
It’s the cleanliness of childlessness… the seemingly easiness of it all.
(Although nothing is as sharp a sting as the potential for life they have at their finger tips. Amen?)
when i really think about it, when i really s-t-r-e-t-c-h my grumpy mind around the empty space,
i twist open my clenched fists and raise my starfish-pink palms up to heaven,
and I find myself free and unwanting,
satisfied and satiated,
at the edge of a great vast blue nothing
ready to burst,
thankful for what I was able to leave behind
In tact, whole and new.
Why are you downcast, oh my soul?
Why so disturbed within me?
I have a deep maddening desire to be creative again. It seems like I can barely get those words out of my mouth though; I have to pull each letter out one by one and they get stuck in my teeth.
Why does it hurt so much more some days? God?
Do you hear me God? It’s me, Liz.