The Loss of Us

How does the door to a marriage close so softly you can’t hear the thunderous sound of it slamming shut? How can there be an absolute finality you never saw coming?

You should’ve recognized the unraveling, everything that made you right together, falling apart thread by thread, one strand at a time. But you didn’t.

Now you can see there were often signs that things weren’t right in your world. Signs you were impervious to at the time, or that you simply excused. You told yourself you’d had a rough day, or that one of you felt a bit under the weather. Even when the signs became more frequent, you remained oblivious to the cancer ravaging your relationship. You didn’t stop to listen to yourself or acknowledge your own dissatisfaction. And without pinpointing your own perpetual discontent, you never thought to ask if she was unhappy.

If you’d stopped ignoring your inner voice and spoken up (it spoke to you often), would things have turned out differently? You’ve wondered that so many times. Perhaps they would have. Then again, maybe not. It no longer matters, because you didn’t listen or speak up. Instead of questioning, you kept making excuses and squashing any niggling doubts.

All those signs. Those moments should’ve been obvious enough that you asked yourself the questions that later consumed you... when later was too late.

Questions like:

Why the painful silences? Those periods of somber stillness that stretched out far too long. You used to oversleep after talking until nearly dawn. You had countless conversations about hopes and dreams, and sometimes tried out names for the children you yearned to have one day. You planned how you'd buy that forever home and build a future together. The topics were endless. The time it took to cover those topics? That was endless, too. Until it wasn’t. Forever, it seemed, turned out to be a fabricated state of existence.

In those early years, more than hopes and dreams cemented your relationship. Before the nightly conversations about thousands of random things, important or insignificant, you’d reach for each other and let passion sweep you away. And was there ever passion! Then, you could barely keep your hands off one another. Even in public, it was as though you needed to touch each other as much as you needed air to breathe. You still can’t begin to count the number of good-natured pleas from one friend or another: “Will you two just get a room?”

When did it reach a point that you were too tired for pillow talk of any kind? What made you too exhausted to search for the stars in one another’s arms? When did you stop waking each other with good-morning kisses despite morning breath and eight hours of rest?

Was there a single catalyst that made you little more than roommates? Or was it a slow death from little criticisms along the way? Were there not enough apologies for those cutting words? Or did the slights fester until any apology would’ve come too late? Did you let unspoken words or trivial disappointments collect and form wounds that could never heal?

Was it learning about your inability to conceive a child? The loss of the babies you’d so often talked about and so badly wanted? That doctor’s visit crushed so many of your dreams. Had that been a turning point in your happiness?  

Or had you tried too hard to be what each other needed, losing the core of yourselves in the process? Could your inner spirits have eventually rebelled at the loss of your identities?

Perhaps, back then, you wore blinders to avoid confronting the hurtful truth. Now, you realize it was an accumulation of small failures that destroyed it all. With that realization comes the onslaught of agonizing pain. No wonder you repeatedly looked the other way. You did it to avoid the anguish of your catastrophic failure. You wonder if she feels the way you do now, as though your heart were being flayed by how you destroyed your relationship together. Layer by layer, bit by bit, day by day.

God, how you miss sharing all the little things that meant everything. The banter and private jokes. The spontaneous hugs. Your hand at the small of her back as you entered a room. Early morning cups of coffee over the kitchen table. You knew precisely how much cream she took in hers, and she knew the exact amount of sugar you spooned into yours. Since you were the better housekeeper, you even miss retrieving her unmentionables from the floor by the bed and tossing them into the laundry basket. You miss the sound of gentle snoring next to you at night. You miss her very presence.

You miss the two of you.

The house feels so empty now. Alone, none of the rooms feel quite the same. Everything familiar and comforting is gone. Only the memories remain, and they're often tinged with jagged edges.

Nonetheless, as is the way of life, the passing of time helps soften the grief. Granted, some days more than others. Like waves in an ocean, the tide of sorrow washes in and recedes.

Some days, you still find yourself drowning. Each lonely tear that escapes is a sad farewell to what you didn’t fight for when fighting was still an option. Other days, you’re able to stop the blame game… alternately, the blame you’d laid at her feet, and the fault you claimed as your own.  On those days, you can acknowledge that neither of you was responsible individually. You both failed your marriage.  

On those days, you find a small measure of relief in accepting the truth…  that forever together wasn’t meant for the two of you. You were too young; too naive. You were right for each other for a time, but wrong for each other for a lifetime.

On those days, although you can’t deny you’ll likely always wear the scars, you tell yourself they’re battle wounds that helped you survive breaking and become who you are. To whom you’ll evolve into.

On this day, however, it’s difficult to even breathe, and it’s taking every ounce of strength you have to survive the loss. A big part of you is still broken and aching to give your marriage another chance.

To talk again.

To try again.

To do it better.

To make it right.

To find the love you lost.

But what if? What if that wasn't the truth? What if it was just another lie you told yourself? That forever together wasn’t meant for the two of you? What if you were meant to be right for a lifetime and you gave up without even trying to fix what was wrong?

You glance at the phone, contemplating reasoning with the pride that’s stopping you from asking her to come home. Maybe if you sat down and really talked, you would stand a chance. Another knife twists in your chest at the thought that it isn’t her home anymore.

Besides, the entire city separates you, and the streets are covered in ice. Not surprising, considering it’s winter. You’ve both always hated winter. The time of year when the chill in the air seeps into your bones. The same way your insides feel without her.

Despite the cold outside, this is the last place you should be. Inside, you sit and stare at four walls and the strangeness of everything that should feel familiar. With one last look at the phone, you scrub the dampness from your cheeks and walk to the closet. Grabbing your winter coat from its hook, pulling it on, and buttoning it, you startle at the sound of your own voice: something somewhere between a chuckle and a sob, sneaking from your throat. She hated the coat, too, always saying wearing it meant it was that “Damned dismal time of the year.”

Opening the door to a freezing gust of arctic air, you nearly faint with shock. It’s impossible. On a day like this, especially? That’s it, you think. When you start seeing things, it’s time to make an appointment with the eye doctor. But no, it isn’t a problem with your sight. Through the heavy snowfall, a petite, dark-haired angel with eyes of crushing green crosses her arms tightly across her chest to ward off the cold.  

“Is it really you?” you ask, tremulously, not to mention stupidly. Unless she has a twin you don’t know about, of course it’s her. “Why are you here?” Please, God, you think, my heart can’t take another beating.

“It's really me, but I’d prefer telling you why I'm here inside rather than outside, if that’s alright. It’s freaking freezing out here.” Despite her words, she doesn’t try to go in. Standing immobile, except for the shivering, on the porch now layered thickly with white powder, she gazes straight into your eyes. The anguish in hers mirrors your own.

“Look, Dennis, I’d like us to talk if you’re willing. I’m miserable. I have been for the past seven weeks, three days, and,” she stops, wipes the moisture from her phone screen, and checks the time before going on, “six hours. I think we made a mistake, not trying to work things out.”

You have no words as her announcement penetrates your befuddled brain. You’ve opened your mouth to speak at least twice, but damn it all, nothing comes out.

“But if you don’t feel the same way, please,” she pleads, “just tell me, and I’ll go away with a promise to never bother you again. But first, I have to tell you how sorry I am that I didn’t try to fight for us.”

Are those tears on her face or just melting snowflakes? There are no snowflakes on yours. The wetness on your face is pure saltiness. In lieu of the speech that’s eluded you, you nod fervently, indicating you feel the same way. Fortunately, your vocal cords finally remember how to function. “We should definitely talk,” you rasp out huskily. “That’s where we went wrong. We forgot how to communicate.”

Like a chameleon, the haunting anguish in her eyes shifts instantly to hope as a sunny smile spreads across her face. Before you can say another thing, she closes the gap between you, throws her arms around you, and gives you one of the spontaneous hugs you could never get enough of. Sealing your lips to hers, you kiss her in a way you haven’t in a very long time, and in a way that says far more than any words ever could.

“Can we go in now?” she asks, teeth chattering from the cold.

In answer, you push the door wide open, thread your fingers through hers and lead her inside. To your complete amazement and total elation, your wife is home. A home that's familiar once more. Despite her parting words seven weeks, three days, six hours, and two minutes ago that she no longer belonged there, she’s finally back where, yes, she absolutely does belong. And with her here, it’s where you belong, too.