I always seem to come back here, to this place of writing and sharing. It feels like a boulder on the shore - I may wash away in the tide for a while, but somehow I always end up washed back here.
It's now been nearly twelve years since my first post here. I was 18 when I started this blog for my Freshman English class; two months from now, I'll be 30 and freshly divorced.
There is much, of course, that I cannot and will not write about that last detail; I am not here to tattle or list grievances. Here is the short story: we were together for nearly 12 years, and now we are working on paperwork for our dissolution. No, there was no infidelity on either side. And no, I was the one who initiated both the separation and the dissolution. Yes, it was - and is - very painful. And yes, I do hope he quickly finds happiness after we part ways, even if it sounds trite.
And here I am, back here on this seaside boulder, washed ashore like a half-drowned man clinging to torn plank…
It was a Wednesday night, and Dave and I had just finished eating a late dinner in the living room. As the end credits scrolled across the television screen, I lay back on the couch.
Long orange light slid across the kitchen floor - it was just before sunset, the night of the summer solstice. Dave stood up, thanked me for making dinner, and went down to the basement to work.
The DVD looped back to the menu, so I rose to eject the disc - season one of The Simpsons, the third disc of three. I reached for the plastic rental cover and popped it back into place with the two others.
I walked toward the basement stairs. "Be back in a minute - don't lock me out!" I called down to Dave. I heard the soft thunk of something mechanical. "OK," he called back. Discs in hand, I slipped into sandals and opened the front door.
It was a beautiful night, and a thin summer humidity cooled by the evening wrapped wide ribbons around my ankles, calves and arms. I struck acro…