To Love Again

i

I turned into the driveway and parked before checking my appearance in the rearview mirror. Using my fingers, I neatened my shoulder-length jet-black hair, which framed a heart-shaped light brown face that had grown a bit too pallid in recent months. I emerged from the vehicle, a Chevy, the sole possession I got from my estranged husband, Alex Orwell. Seven months had passed since we went our separate ways—his decision. The first few months were unbearable—full of tears and heartache. Most of that time, I'd wake in the middle of the night with thoughts of him, wondering if he'd regretted leaving me, and then I imagined him being happy without me, as an overwhelming emptiness consumed me. As time passed, I grew in apathy at the thought of him. Numbness overcame me. I was breathing, but dead inside—romantically. And so, with the passing of time and no communication between us, I believed myself closer to being over him. Well, most times, for there were the odd occasions when the remembrance of him and our past reduced me to tears. Like today, before I packed and left, I had the urge to phone him—the fifth time I'd done that since he walked out. I dialed and got voicemail, a total of three times, until someone picked up and I heard a voice similar to his in the background. There was a woman's voice too but in the background. No one answered, and the call ended abruptly—and calling again, I got voicemail. Why did I have to do that and make the wound in my heart almost as fresh as the day he left me?

I remember how I used to come alive whenever I entered a room and he looked at me. Just one look from him evoked feelings of desirability within me. Somehow, that spark had fleeted, along with my desire for him, and memories and thoughts of him had failed in its recapture. It was hurt, rejection, hopelessness, and self-pity I felt instead, which was a tragedy, for my desire for him was monumental! A hurting person could never feel desirable. Desirability is only for the whole-hearted, the untainted heart, or the one healed from its brokenness. And I was a long way from that. Desire was dead and buried, killed by the stifling pain deep within my heart, and trust was dead too. So then, could love have inevitably died? Perhaps his abandonment had extinguished it, for love is like a living thing fed by loving actions, which once removed, slowly quells its existence.

I've heard it said that love suffers long and is kind, so in that sense, one could say I still loved him. Perhaps, if he returned and asked to reunite, I'd agree, and things would probably be best if he made up for the hurt he caused by showing he was sincere in his decision. I felt certain I could forgive and accept him.