Sunday, February 12, 2012

Wash That Man Right Out of My Hair

I crave water. I want a boat to take me somewhere I've never been with him. A boat to the island of myself. Boat on water rocking me into some new satisfaction. Rocking me until he is washed away, washed under.

I have a disorder. When I travel to a place I like, it's never long before I tell myself I'm moving there. Here's my street. My house. I will paint the door red. Redo the flower beds. Down the street is my bookstore, my favorite coffee. Around the corner--that's my bar. The bartender will mix my drink when he sees me step through the door.

This weekend I  found the place where I will move to. Really move. Not pretend. There is water. There are boats.

I haven't yet found my house. At night while I sleep, I move my furniture into one house after another, trying them out. Sofa here facing the water. Table and chairs facing the water. My bed facing the water. Me facing the water. A baptism into my new life. Every last piece of my divorce floating away from me, floating out so far that all of it is just a speck on the horizon. A speck between land and sea. Between him and me.


Elizabeth said...

Oh, I hope so. I think it's possible.

Wrinkling Daily said...

The reason I love your blog so much, besides your writing and insight, is that you are a real person who has gone through similar circumstances, and who wants what I want and is on her way to getting it. I applaud you and thank you for the inspiration I desperately needed today.