When I’m with him I’m 17 and sitting on a truck’s tailgate, my booted feet swinging back and forth.
We’re sitting close enough that our arms brush up against each other when we take a sip of beer.
We’re not so close to be actually touching, but we wish we were.
And the beer is warm by now because I don’t like it, and I’ve got way too many butterflies in my stomach to add bubbles.
But I’ll hold it in my hand and pretend to sip, grateful that it gives me something to do.
Otherwise I’d be fussing with my hair.
Or chewing my nails.
When I’m with him it’s always early summer.
It’s too warm for a coat, but just cool enough to be comfortable in jeans.
And there are no bugs and the air is fresh.
His truck didn’t even get dusty as it bumped down the dirt road to the creek that we sit beside.
He brought a bag of sunflower seeds that he holds out to me.
We crunch, and spit, and I try to make sure I don’t end up with shells stuck to my chin.
He says something funny, and his shoulder bumps into mine as if to say, “get it?”
And I do, but his shoulder stays pressed against mine just the same.
When I’m with him I’m 17 and I can be anything, and go anywhere, but I’d like to stay here for now, where there’s no internet, no cell towers, and nothing to rush off to.
When I’m with him, I’m perfect, and I know because he says so, right before he leans in and brushes a kiss along my jawline.
His breath smells of barbeque Spitz and his mechanic’s fingers are rough as he runs them down my arm, along the inside of my elbow, to my hand with the warm beer clutched inside.
He pulls the beer out of my grip and threads his fingers with mine.
I’ve been absent from my writing practice for a long time. And, as we know, the longer you step away from something the harder it is to step back in.
I stepped away for so long that I barely remember the woman who used to write regularly — the one who wrote from a place of pain and loneliness, of uncertainty and confusion. Writing when you’re lonely is easy, because you’re writing to connect. You’re throwing your words into the world in hopes that someone else will read them, and feel seen and understood.
It’s why so many songs are written about heartbreak. It’s why so many books have tragic turning points and underdogs. It’s why Taylor Swift has a catalogue, and it’s why country music exists.
Writing when you’re happy? Writing when you’re healthy? Writing when you have mental clarity, are securely attached with rich friendships, a good job, and well-adjusted children?
Not only is that boring, it also seems boastful. Barf. Shut up, already.
Our appetite for disaster
Scrolling on Instagram the other night, I laughed as a content-creator mom detailed her social media wish list this holiday season: Keep your matching jammies and picture-perfect cookie-decorating reels, she said. Give us your disasters – nobody wants your curated Christmas perfection.
Folks love a good disaster. As much as we say we want good news, I worked in the news business long enough to know that we don’t, really.
People want to watch us fail more than they want to see us succeed. And they want reassurance that that same disaster isn’t about to overtake them.
So I detailed my disaster. I shared my mess. And then the storm passed and I spent years quietly sweeping up debris and replacing broken windows.
Now my life is tidy, quiet and boring.
Naming the grief
It turns out that while I was sweeping up, I was grieving, and it’s only lately that I’ve given myself permission to use that word.
It felt indulgent to call what I went through ‘grief.’ Nobody died. I have friends who lost their husbands forever; mine decided he wanted someone else, and now they live just down the road.
But it was grief. I grieved the life I thought I would have and the future I worked so hard for. I grieved the childhood my children wouldn’t get, the holidays and celebrations that were simple and are now complicated. And as much as I hate to admit it, I also grieved the loss of what had been at one point, my closest friend.
A story still worth telling
The other day, while out walking the dog and looking for a new podcast for my journey, Oprah’s name popped up. Her podcast was about the rise of the ‘grey divorce,’ the term given to those who divorce after the age of 50. The subjects being interviewed were mostly women. Some had initiated the divorce, while others were blindsided.
The episode reminded me that I still have a story to tell and connections to make. That I remain a writer, even when my keyboard collects dust; even when I’m quiet.
The words are still there, and lately they’ve been bubbling up, putting lumps in my throat that a cough simply won’t clear.
I was reminded that even if there’s a greater appetite for stories of heartbreak and disaster, there are still those who might wish to read about the boring bits. About remembering who you are when you come up for air. About the depth of friendships, about parenting teenagers who have a complicated relationship with their dad, and about accidentally falling in love again when you have every reason to steer clear.
And even if there is no audience, that’s no reason to sit on my hands.
It’s been awhile since I was “in love,” to be honest. But I’ve dabbled in falling in love–in catching those first heady feelings you get after a few dates that don’t go sideways, or that aren’t spent intentionally ignoring the red flags that so often show up in the periphery.
And oh my gosh does it feel good!
This isn’t love, love, certainly, or at least not the kind that would have you make bold commitments or pronouncements. This isn’t the kind of love that you’d call up on your hardest day, or the kind that sits with you through an ugly cry. This isn’t love born of time, trust and certainty, and it’s not the kind of love that you’re even ready to talk about; you know it’s probably fleeting and so this is the kind of love that doesn’t get a name. It’s the kind we whisper about only to ourselves; the kind we tuck in at night, and wake up smiling about in the morning.
Is there another word for this? We could call it a “crush” but we’re grown ups now. Is it OK to call this a kind of love, too?
Surely, we can’t call what this is “love,” not when I use that same word to describe how I feel about my children. The love I feel for them is endless and life altering. The love I feel for them is heart-making and heartbreaking and so intense it’s terrifying. It’s the kind that keeps me up at night, that makes me wring my hands; it’s the kind that grounds me, makes me who I am and keeps me striving to do better, be better and want more.
Surely what I’ve been dabbling in lately is not love. Not as defined by those terms. The kind of love that I’ve been courting is fun and light. It’s smooth and it sparkles. It gives me funny stories to tell my friends over lunch, it gives me new experiences and new perspectives. And it doesn’t take much in return.
While we use the word “love” to describe the thunder-cracking moment in a movie that confirms a deep romantic connection, we also use it liberally. I love cheese, for example. And fresh pineapple. I love the satisfying release you feel when pulling a carrot out of the garden, or the way it feels to sink your hands into a bucket of bird seed.
But I also love connection. I’m hardwired for it, as most of us are.
And even these small bits of love are bold, and a bit frightening.
They’re not scary because they might ruin you, but because they expose you. You’re out there. You’re living. You’re trying. You’re going to screw up and overthink and second guess. You’re going to be not enough for some folks and too much for others. You’re going to get passed over and passed by just like any brave adventurer.
But it’s addictive, this bravery. The more you risk, the more you want to keep risking. The more you introduce yourself to others, the more you learn about yourself–about who you are, what you want, what you like and what you have absolutely zero interest in: Nope. No sir. Hard pass.
Staying home and staying safe suddenly feels boring. Where’s the story in that?
Love. We reserve this word and gift it to those who have walked through hoops and jumped over obstacles with us and for us.
But I love the process of love and loving. I love the learning that comes with it. The knowing and the failing. I even love the short love stories; the places your imagination jumps to, the futures that will never take shape but are nice to think about for a brief fantastical moment all the same.
And what I love most about this love is when you step out and step forward onto a stone that’s unsteady due to distance or disconnection or just plain old bad timing, there are familiar loving hands that reach out to grab you before (and sometimes moments after) you fall in the muck and get all wet and weedy.
And what do we call that act? That act of saving you from a face plant, or from behaving like too much of an idiot?
We call that love, too.
It’s our word, and it’s free to use. Whether we tuck it in close, say it too soon or too loudly, give it away too early or hang on until it’s too late, it’s really just a string of four letters that together wouldn’t even make a Wordle.
It’s been days since I’ve been asked to find his wallet or his keys, his ID badge for work, or his protein shake.
And for that matter, I haven’t washed a single shaker cup this week, nor have I had to carry on a telephone conversation over the sound of the blender as it pulverizes bananas, blueberries, and avocados together with strange powders labeled Mutant, and Freak.
When I was a kid, my dad worked his shift at the mill and was home each night for dinner and the six o’clock news. I can’t recall a single night of my childhood that my parents were apart. That’s just how it was.
But modern marriages aren’t what they once were. Surprisingly few of us have the benefit of a spouse at home, every night, forever.
Living with a spouse who travels for work, or who works ‘in camp’ is the pits. There’s a lot I miss when my husband is away. I miss being the only grown up in the room. I miss having someone else available to make decisions, even if I don’t always agree with them. I miss having someone else reinforce the rules, carry the burdens, and the groceries. I miss having someone else take out the garbage.
I miss physical contact. Certainly, there are plenty of hugs and kisses when daddy’s away, and while the hugs and kisses of children are sweet, there’s something reassuring about the simple shoulder-to-shoulder brush of arms as you stand beside your spouse at the sink doing dishes. There’s intimacy in the hand on the back as you walk out the door.
As I sit here typing, the snow is softly falling, and has been for nearly a week. I miss having someone else shovel.
But it could be worse. Actually, there are some moments in the separation that are quite lovely.
When he’s away, I make tea and drink it in bed, pillows piled all around. I read late into the night without anybody suggesting I go to sleep or turn out the light.
And when I do sleep, I sprawl. Nobody breathes in my direction while I slumber, and there are no audible nose whistles, save my own, which are adorable.
When the kids are in bed, I watch multiple episodes of Dateline on the big couch, and I can stare at my phone the entire time without someone questioning how I can possibly know what’s going on, and whether I can even put the phone down, and what’s so funny anyway, and who are you texting, and what is she up to?
The cat likes me best when he’s away.
Yes, it could be worse. Because let’s face it — some people have their spouse home every night and would give anything for a bit of breathing room. Or a lot of breathing room.
Absence, as they say, makes the heart grow fonder. My heart is fond.
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