Real Love

If I love what is real, I love the trees outside my window in the same way that I love bad endings. The click of a phone line that ended a friendship. The way it opened me up into seeing what still surrounds me. My husband asking me if I missed my friend. My husband who cues music to help me emote when I’m sad. My husband who loves mornings and still loves my brain. My brain that clings to storylines that no longer serve me.

I practice forgiveness, noting that if I forgive others, I need to forgive myself in the next breath.

My husband’s after-shave cologne lingers on my skin this morning. He’s always here, more real than the memories that coat my over-saturated storylines. The ones I drop when I whisper, ‘I forgive you. I forgive myself.’

The past seals itself up. I turn to the now. The student who asked me to her dance performance, the one who is going to teach me dance moves during our last class celebration. The way the trees react to my watching them. The physics I create in my head whether science can prove it or not. Every action has an equal and opposite reaction. The phone clicks. I stand outside my front door and I tell my husband a friendship is over. The porch sags at my news and then bounces back. The trick is in grieving the loss and celebrating the growth. The cliché of the closed door and the open window is still true. Can you feel the breeze coming into the room? We are always beginning again.


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