confession: i’m a musky woman who loves perfume. i want to smell flowers from vines and in vases, not in my perfume. my perfumes are heavily scented with amber, patchouli, and sandalwood. with one exception. the one she bought for me that smells like morning light in the center of a sunrising sky. she intended for me to layer the morning light with the one that smells like the darkest woods on the blackest night. she’s as musky as i am, maybe muskier. but she found a sweet scent that’s heavy enough for us to wear due to its dazzling brightness. i’ve been spraying the bright one in my car and on the spot to the left of my heart for days.
confession: i met her alcoholic ex-husband at the hospital. we waited together all night. i held him while he cried, afraid he would lose her. she divorced him years ago because she refused to continue living with the half-presence that fogs the consciousness of a daily drinking alcoholic. but she never stopped loving him. he knows that even though she divorced him and moved out of their house that she has never left him, that her heart will always love him. only death will part them, but his drinking keeps them apart.
confession: i battle my brokenness with wholeness each day.
confession: when i read her letter, my heart understood every word, which is why she wrote to me. we long to be heard, seen, loved, accepted, and understood. i am grateful that i can give those to her. i admire her wisdom and courage to reach out for what she needs.
confession: i missed him less than thirty minutes after i hugged him goodbye. i missed him more two days later. three days is too many.
confession: i drove by her house, not on purpose, but because my car turned around and pointed itself in her house’s direction. i drove slowly down her street, smiling at the new white minivan in her driveway while my heart broke again.
confession: i’m good in a crisis. too good. my resiliency becomes its own calamity later when i’m alone, when the critical moments have passed, when i’m not holding myself and everyone else together.
confession: new socks and new sheets. i bought them for myself. i bought them for her. in turquoise.
confession: when i heard her voice on the message, i hit delete without listening, walked into the kitchen and began binge eating a can of ravioli, which is my childhood comfort food. i didn’t expect her to call. i wouldn’t have anticipated my reaction.
confession: he sings in the voice i imagine i would have if i were a man. i don’t know his name, but his voice sings in my head all day.