Beginning In The End
Love, loss, and finding yourself at the close of a chapter
In the end the bags are packed and separated on opposite sides of the bedroom. A bed once shared now leans precariously against the windows, wrapped in sterile plastic. Below a Bushwick street bustles with summer’s last hot breath. The towels are neatly divided. The wine glasses are padded and sorted. The curtains are pulled from their rods and folded.
In the end we leave this life in orderly fashion.
A stack of journals sits in an open box, their pages filled with memories. These journals are from a child, naive, hopeful; full of a pure love perhaps untenable now or ever again. A trajectory played out between love letters and drawn out passages, permeated by a hidden truth.
I am being honest now.
I fear for them huddled on the ground crying, between the unfinished boxing of toiletries. Their body quivers in pain as I slowly open the door to leave. I hesitate. My hand hovers above the knob. I am unsure if I step out or go crawl on the floor next to them. Do I give my body as comfort as I had for years? The temptation is too acute. The instinct born from love, the need to mollify pain, not just for them, but for me.
Their pain. My pain. No longer our pain.