The grief that swallowed me is indescribable. There is no color to match, no word to describe. It is without equal, the heaviness that I felt and the sadness that my heart absorbed was so palpable that I swear I could scoop it out and hold in my hands. I had felt the grief of loss before, with the passing of my parents; my mother first, totally unexpectedly, followed by my father a few years later, passing as I held him in my arms. But as we grow older, we know that eventually the day will come when they go and we are left behind, so we prepare for it, whether we realize it or not. However, I wasn’t preparing for this loss, and I never knew grief could take me lower, darker, sadder or that loneliness had a reach that penetrated areas of my heart that I did not know I had.

I don’t remember much about that day. I don’t remember the orientation, or smiling and shaking hands with new colleagues, but I know I did because throughout the year, I would hear how “funny” my stories were that day. I have no idea what I said or to whom. I don’t remember cramming on the risers with everyone in the gym for an impromptu first staff photo of the year, but I know I did because I’d see the picture, taped on the wall over the staff sign in books. There I was, smiling brightly, holding it together, displaying that poker face that I have perfected over my lifetime. The day is lost to me, words and introductions slipped out of my mouth, but purely on autopilot; I didn’t come back to life until I got home. And then I died all over again. That, I remember.

I dropped my keys trying to open my door. Sighing heavily, with great fatigue, I bent over to pick them up and very intentionally aligned the tip of the key into the lock, and pushed the key in, lacking the energy to bend over to pick them up again. I turned the lock and leaned on the door, using my body weight to encourage the door open. I just wanted in and away from this terrible day.

I walked in and let my purse slide off of my shoulder, straight to the floor. My keys slid out of my loose hand to the coffee table, and I slipped out of my shoes, stepped over my purse and walked to my bedroom. The late summer afternoon sun was streaming through the center of my closed curtains, casting a solid stream of sunlight across the room, capturing dust that danced in the light. The stream of light was enough to interrupt the cool darkness of the room, casting a warm glow where it landed. I walked to my dresser and opened one of his drawers that I kept for him, so he had what he needed when he’d come over. I reached in and pulled out one of his t-shirts, holding it against my face, my eyes closed. I inhaled deeply, looking for his scent, trying to find him, touch him. My face scrunched up with a pent up sob that came out of the deepest place in my heart and I bent over at the waist, face buried in his shirt, crying with long wails until my voice trailed off, forcing me to take a jagged breath just before my soul pushed out another mournful wail. My God, it felt as if he had died, and I thought I had killed him. I killed him with my inabilities and lack and it was my fault. Crying with hiccuping gulps, I looked around the room through blurred teary eyes at our pictures, his shirt still pressed against my nose and mouth, and longed for him like I had never before. Squeezing my eyes shut, fresh scalding tears spilled down my face, and I stood there, utterly broken, helpless and having no idea what to do. The shock of his departure cannot be overstated; we almost never fought. We got along as if we had grown up together. I loved his family, had a great relationship with one of his brothers, truly adored his mother. And my adoration for him was well known, to the point of good natured teasing by others . I just didn’t understand why suddenly I was “too much”, and such a point of upset that he had to leave me. Realizing he had been miserable all this time, that I made him feel so bad while I floated around in love, was gut wrenching. I was so sorry.

Standing in front of the large mirror on my dresser, I set his shirt down, and crossed my arms, gathering the fabric of my navy blue maxi summer dress, pulling it up over my body, past my head, where I let it fall to the floor behind me. I looked at my reflection in the mirror, my image outlined from the golden sunlight on the wall behind me. “I should have gone to the gym,” I whispered to myself. I remembered his sudden scrutiny of my body and swimsuit this summer, standing on the bow of his boat. I have a classic hourglass shape, with large breasts and hips and a nipped in waist. I am not heavy at all, but I am curvy.  I was wearing a dark blue 1940’s inspired 2 piece swimsuit from Lord and Taylor; very “pin up girl” design, with a halter bustier top that tied behind my neck and back, and the bottom piece had a white belt with brass grommets, and red rope laced through, very vintage US Navy “sailor” look. It was sexy, flattering, and I bought it for him. We loved all things nautical and I thought he would love this swimsuit, too. But he told me that the bottom piece had “too much fabric”, that from a distance, it “makes your ass look 3 feet tall” and “why is it so high up?” and can I “roll it down so it’s smaller”. He wanted the bottom piece “smaller”. But if the bottom piece was smaller, it would show too much, and he never wanted other men to see too much on me. He’d say so. So this critique was incredibly out of character for him. Needless to say, I never wore that again. Now I realized maybe he was trying to tell me he had lost attraction to me … that’s why he stopped coming over. He drifted. I should have worn sexier things. I should never have worn that stupid swimsuit. Looking at myself in my bra and panties, my fingertips grazed the faint stretchmarks peeking out from the top of my pantyband. When I was pregnant, I carried very low, and I developed stretchmarks that stopped just below my navel. All these years later, much thinner than I’d ever been, that small patch of stretchmarked skin remained soft, loose and ugly.  It looked like a tiger had swiped my lower belly, though it was hidden beneath my panties. Nobody could see them, even in a swimsuit. But naked, there they were. I remembered one time I was complaining about it in front of him, and he said, ” … not all women who’ve had babies stay like that, you know. Some women don’t get stretchmarks at all.” I remember thinking it was such a weird thing to say, but now, looking back, I realized he’d said it in the weeks before he left. Maybe this bothered him, too. For 3 years, he never said anything like that, never critiqued my swimwear, always said I was sexy … this was a different man, so suddenly. He must’ve grown weary from faking it all that time. I shook my head as I looked at myself, exhaling deeply. I wiped my face with both hands and gave myself a once over, disgusted at what I saw. No wonder. No wonder. More tears tumbled down my face as I broke down again. I reached behind my back and unhooked my bra, letting it drop to the floor, and I slipped his shirt on, catching his scent as the shirt grazed my face. I pulled the collar up to deeply inhale, smelling him, pressing the fabric against my skin. “Please,” I breathed out loud. “Please. Please don’t do this. I’m sorry.”

I turned and walked out of my bedroom, my bare feet feeling the warm hardwood floor beneath me. “I need to mop,” I murmured. I bent over to pick up my purse, and I reached in, feeling around until I found my phone, carelessly dropping my purse back to the floor. I swiped the screen open, hoping to see a text from him. There was nothing. I ran the back of my hand over my wet face, smearing tears and snot across my skin. Shameless, I wiped again as I walked into the kitchen to get a paper towel, tears still streaming down my face. I tore off a paper towel and pressed it against my eyes, and I cried again, my shoulders shaking, standing there over the sink. I wanted to die. And like someone pulled a cord to release a stopper, I burst open again, weeping with a sad mourning that had never escaped me before. My cries echoed throughout my house … so loud, so unlike me. Shoulders slumped, paper towel already soaked and wadded up against my face, I slowly walked back to my bedroom. The sun was setting and the golden stream of light cast long shadows across my bed. I walked to my closet and found his dress jacket. I pulled it off the hanger and held it against my body, as if I could hug him through it. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” I cried into the fabric, unsure of what I was sorry for. I sank to the hardwood floor, wearing only his t-shirt and my underwear, holding his jacket against me, my phone tightly in my hand in case he called. Overcome with crushing fatigue, I curled up, hiding my face in his jacket. There I stayed, motionless, too exhausted to make it to my bed. I didn’t even care. The long afternoon shadows slowly shifted around the room with the setting sun, until the ever dimming light slipped away, extinguished by the long night ahead.

To be continued …