I had forgotten. I love Sunday nights. I clean my kitchen on Sunday nights. I get ready for the week on Sunday nights. I wash lunch boxes and run the dishwasher with water bottles and the weekend’s mess. I cleared the table and gave it a good scrub and that’s no small feat in this house. I am doing laundry. I picked up the ever-growing pile of sweepings, long ignored, and put it into the trash. The recycling is ready for Tuesday. It looks nice in there. It has been several years since I’ve had a Sunday night like this but I’m on my own again and it’s all up to me. It’s easier to get things done knowing that.
He only had one drawer here. A pair or two of socks and a shirt. Some pajama bottoms that I had bought long ago for a nephew who I never saw at Christmas so they lived in the attic until he wore them. Not so hard to put that all away. Cleaning the kitchen tonight I found a coffee cup he drank out of with the silt still at the bottom. It’s soaking now. Before long there will be nary a trace. Poof. Gone. I feel bad for my children because they don’t understand about people growing apart. At least he hadn’t been around much in the past months so it isn’t a giant black hole for them but it’s still a loss.
Ending a dying relationship is a positive thing but it takes some time to come out on the other side. Stages to go through and all – especially when he finds someone shiny and new just like that and you’re pretty certain you won’t. Maybe it’s enough to put on a little mascara and be noticed while grocery shopping. I may be in the not-so-young department but I look okay and it’s always nice to be checked out unless by a creeper, as my kids would say. It’s probably best to leave it at that for now.
I often hope I’ll come back in another life as someone who marries their high school sweetheart and lives happily ever after. I used to love seeing the photographs on my old neighbors’ wall: they married young and I marveled at all the hairstyles they had been through together. I used to want to come back as a gear head so I could have a muscle car and know how to fix it. That was in my twenties. In my early thirties I wanted to come back as a dog with a really good owner. Then, in my late thirties, I just wanted to come back happy.
And I did. Mostly. Ralphie and Violet give my life shape and meaning. I may have more sass in my future and other frustrating and hard times but there are these two wonderful, affectionate, and loving creatures lying in my bed waiting for me to snuggle in between them. Clean sheets. A path cleared to the bed. Perfection. Off I go.