Reblogged for the simple enjoyment of good photography and compelling subject matter. Thank you, lovely d. – Ret
Please, honey, I want to hear your voice. I love you. I want your words.”
She gave him this. And when he took the microphone, his words found her.
#for Reticent Mental Property. Video from YouTube. With a nod to Paul Simon. February 19, 2016.
When separated from your life partner, your secrets no longer have protections. And the stories he kept for your friends are no longer in the vault.
When the day arrives and you say with conviction or in a whispered release or blurted out in halting sob-ridden gasps, “I cannot do this anymore,” your mind will look down on your body, from a place of duty and strength and see simple honesty wash over the scene.
The librarian will assess your stack with curiosity but then, just as quickly, handle herself properly, look you in the eye and processes your life-examining selections. Contemplating Divorce by Susan Pease Gadoua
Those friends, gobsmacked when you confess the end has arrived, experience fear as your confession reminds them how fragile their happiness may be. You strangely find yourself comforting them.
You don’t want to be a part of this new club. But you are.
There’s something very permanent about purchasing and moving one, beautiful, long, leather couch into the new place which formerly held just the necessities: the blow-up mattress and several framed photographs of your beautiful children.
And the day your friend sends over just two teacups with saucers from her favorite set of china is the day she bears witness to the most basic needs of your changed routine.
She grieves in the knowing- someone else will have her life. And she celebrates in the moment- this life will still have her.
#for Reticent Mental Property. February 18, 2016. Images courtesy of the web from Separation, 1968, directed by Jack Bond, UK. http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0063581/
It wasn’t the 113 days of playing defense, hard, refusing to give details or names or scenes or excuses when he learned she had made choices to learn, to adventure, to be her own person after three decades of tradition that began in her 14th year.
It wasn’t the duck and dodge of his body blocking the doorway or finding there was a GPS tracking system mounted underneath the steering column.
It wasn’t the waking in the middle of the darkest hours of the night to the spray of spit in her face as he startled her from sleep in the divided bed with words laced with whorish insinuations.
It wasn’t the pleading and the begging for her to return to the life they planned, or the implied life-ending opportunity he wished he had the guts to take.
It wasn’t the need to leave on her shoes or keep her coat on her person, complete with keys in the pocket and handbag moving with her throughout the house when she came home to be with the kids and show them she hadn’t abandoned them. It wasn’t her hurried move to the small apartment, with inadequate locks, just nine minutes away.
In the end, it was the choice between two futures.
Come home. I need you, we need you.
You do You. Whether I’m in the picture or not, I only want you to be happy.
She appeared to be on a cliff, leaping, suspended mid-fly, arms outstretched, fingertips brushing the edge of tomorrows.
For Reticent Mental Property. Images courtesy of the web. 2/111/2016. The Chesterfield couch was installed in her library that weekend.