A chunk of ice falls and hits the floor in front of me.
I step over it, barely noticing, yet aware enough to avoid slipping.
The melting ice leaves small puddles in my wake.
Life goes on.
Fridays come and go and the empty expanse of too many weekends pass
leaving their empty time, miraculously filled with activity after
activity, behind.
I stay busy.
Too busy.
Busy enough to not think,
to not feel,
to not remember.
Morning after morning, I hurl myself out of bed
feet on the floor,
That’s what your mother always said,
“Feet on the floor, Amy,”
because you weren’t a morning person.
Ever.
I watch, I worry,
I keep the refrigerator stocked
and make breakfasts and lunches
every morning,
like little prayers to keep them safe.
Our children.
It is the least I can do
It is all I can do.
I stay busy.
Your passing brings her home
except the locks have been changed.
Her key no longer fits my heart
The mask stripped away, I see the ugly.
Correction, I acknowledge the ugly.
I knew was there all along.
The mean spirit.
The fear based living.
The running and hiding
to avoid her demons.
Point a finger and it keeps blame
at bay.
Disguise it as a wounded bird
and it will be taken in.
Loved.
Cared for.
Flaws labeled as war wounds.
Hatred attributed to childhood trauma.
The hate.
The hate was the hardest to stomach.
As your ashes sit on our children’s bedside tables,
the hate still stirs in her,
swirling around me until I draw the line.
Enough.
“Hate if you must, but be quiet.
I won’t listen any longer.”
What is the point?
“True, Amy did not help us,
but she did not ruin us.”
We ruined us.
Your unfettered fear stopped us in our tracks.
I used to take the blame.
My need.
My fear.
My full set of baggage
complete with valise, overnight bag, steamer trunk, and cargo hold.
In hearing your voice,
The honey stripped away,
I hear the ragged screeching
of hate in your heart
and know.
I know I will never return.
I know I am free,
in a sense.
This freedom comes at a price.
The price of feeling the pain.
The price of stopping long enough to suffer.
The jagged shards of ice falling
and as they rip away from my still-beating heart,
they slice through my chest,
thudding to the floor.
Excruciating twists
Jar me from my sleep
even then I try to pretend
they are something else,
age,
a busy mind,
a weak bladder,
a need for quiet time
taken only when the house is asleep.
Lies.
All lies.
It is you.
It is Amy.
It is nearly three decades of
being unable to discern
who loved who,
who hated who,
who was real and true and good,
who was hurtful and manipulative.
Caught in the middle of two
who would tear me apart,
keep me down,
make me less,
for their own gain.
I stayed with each to feel safe.
I own this.
Tonight, I am ripped from my deep need for sleep,
ragged sobs erupting
as the biggest chunk yet of the iceberg falls
leaving my heart raw, bleeding,
but beating still.
Two women who loved me with all they had to give,
neither whole enough to love me true
at least in the time we had.
Me not whole enough to love
either true
at least in the time we had.
One got help, came clean, and the walls came tumbling down.
The other, a gypsy still on the run from fear, an artillery of hate by
her side,
spewing anger, bitterness, and vitriol
about the dead mother of my children.
No spun Southern sugar this time,
just pure Southern hatred.
I taste the bile at the back of my tongue
and am sickened at the years and role I chose to
play in the tragedy.
I allow myself to acknowledge
that I miss my dear friend, my ex-wife, my children’s other mother.
Sobbing uncontrollably,
the dam bursts and
my heart breaks all over again.
Racking sobs seize me
and, for once, I do not fight them.
I let them come.
I allow them possess me,
trusting I will not be consumed.
I will come through this night.
The sun will rise, and
I will make two breakfasts and two lunches
like prayers for the future.
Our children’s future.
They will live and laugh and love,
so I will, too.
Because that’s what mothers do.
They show up each and every day
and let their icebergs melt in the dead of night
to keep their children from drowning
in the ice-riddled oceans left behind.
The morning will come in about an hour.
I should try sleep.
But know I won’t.
Instead, I light a candle,
remember the good,
and look toward the future
knowing I will keep you alive
in all our hearts.
~ Mk Michaels
