Sometimes I’m asked

“What’s the hardest part?”.

A funny question,

with a typical answer I suppose.

Here goes:

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?)

AND YET

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.