Divorce à la Snow Queen

The mirror:

His words have become my mirror; every time I look at myself in them, all I see is my reflection warped, twisted. When the mirror breaks, shards fly everywhere, lodging themselves in my eyes, my heart, my skin, and all is stinging. Frozen and bleak.

The enchanted sleigh:

When I fly into Indianapolis and take a bus down to Bloomington to see if I want to do a graduate program there, I am amazed at how few people and buildings I see while peering out the windows for the duration of the hour’s drive. Where do all the people live? Why is there so much corn?

The dream, part 1:

I am still in a lease with my ex-husband, and he talks me into renewing it for another 6 months. I look at the white walls, and past them, to “his” bedroom (we have not shared a bedroom for months now). I know he will lay in his bed most of the day, smoking pot and playing video games, and somehow I make my peace with being stuck there for another half year.

The snow globe:

It’s snowing when I pack the last of my belongings into the storage unit. My wedding album is in the bottom of a trunk somewhere towards the back of the unit, whereas the boxes of books are stacked neatly lining the sides, in case I need them. I kick ice off my boots before climbing back into my car, so I can figure out where to spend the night: Midwestern Winter Divorce, a seasonal specialty.

The dream, part 2:

The villain has followed me to my parents’ home in Los Angeles. He is a scientist and I am not human and he is determined to use experimental new technology to artificially inseminate my (faerie? elfin?) body to create a hybrid being. I am too fatigued and traumatized to care; I only wish to guarantee the safety of my family. My boyfriend at the time hovers nearby, but we only talk about how I can shape shift and he can’t, and how it was weird that one time I donned his ex-girlfriend’s face. There is a thump downstairs: a reindeer’s carcass has been thrown onto the carport, and that’s how we know the Hunter has found us.

The red shoes:

One college-teaching salary won’t pay enough for me to rent a place of my own again. After another year in a friend’s spare bedroom, I land a better contract, and sign a lease. Friends rally to unload the boxes and boxes of books. We joke, drink cider, our shoes discarded in the front room, paired off chaotically for static dances.

The dream, part 3:

There is a white room, like an art gallery, but the walls are plain. I walk up to every person, and each person is one I know. They silently all turn their backs on me and walk away.

The ice puzzle:

My ex-husband had encouraged me to take up writing, then said that since I wasn’t contributing enough to the household financially, he would make all the decisions from then on. It wasn’t the first moment that made me consider divorce, but it was the first time it became real in my mind, as real as anything I would go on to write and publish, offering my heart on a platter to the world.

I’ve picked it free of ice, just for you. The mirror shards turn to water and the droplets run down my fingertips, into my lap, and the rivulets stream away as spring comes.