Sometimes on a Sunday afternoon, I stand at the stove cooking something that I know you would like. There’s a pot of sweet tea brewing on the counter, and I know that you would enjoy an ice cold glass. I feel a tingle on the back of my neck, expecting you to walk up behind me, sweep my hair over my shoulder, and place your lips somewhere between my shoulder and my collar bone. Eventually something needs turning in the skillet or the phone rings, and I wake up from a dream of the life that never quite happened.
You were my priority for far too long after I ceased to be an option for you. I’m not proud of it, but it’s true. Life couldn’t be so unfair as to allow such an investment have no yield. But in reality, it could. Maybe I could have had you on your terms, but I imagine that would have been another broken promise.
It was a bit of grace that showed me that having you meant losing me. Tied in knots though I was, I knew that much was true. So, tell you about losing the love of my life “because it sounds like he missed out too?” I could, but you know the story. And, yes, he did.
You know our story, but you no longer know mine. It is a story that does sometimes tell of me standing by myself in my house missing you. Did you catch that? Standing. By myself. In my house. A house that I bought and fill with memories and friends. Magic happened when I ceased to lean on you. It’s not about blaming you. It’s about being proud of me. That I do not, cannnot regret.
