When It’s Time To Say Good-Bye

This year has been The Year Of The Split for several of my friends. In fact, each of the last couple of years has seen a few divorces among friends of mine. Just over two weeks ago, the divorce of another good friend of mine became final. Done. In the books.

Even when it’s the best decision for all involved, even when people divorce for all the right reasons, the process and the aftermath can be emotionally wrenching, especially when kids are involved. Will the kids ultimately be okay? Will they understand why this is happening? How terribly will they miss their non-custodial parent?  Will they blame themselves? What will they learn about relationships and commitment from this experience?

My parents divorced when I was two years old.  You might think I don’t remember anything from before the divorce, but I do.  I have foggy memories of being in our apartment in Miami, memories that my mom (who at first doubted I could remember something from so early) verified are accurate.  In other words, I was aware when the divorce happened, and I’ve lived as the child of divorced parents for almost all of my life.

For my friends who have gone through all of this in recent days, weeks and years, hopefully what I’m about to share will give you a measure of comfort.  What my parents’ divorce taught me is this:

1. The word “family” is fluid in its make-up.  My “live-in” family consisted of mom-dad-and-me, then mom-and-me, then mom-stepdad-me-and-stepsister and finally mom-stepdad-me-stepsister-and-cousin. My family, as a whole, includes the usual suspects as well as stepparents, stepsister, half-sisters, several step-grandparents and step-cousins and step-aunts and step-uncles. It’s mind-reeling in its complexity. My sister and I used to joke that new boyfriends should be given formal classes to learn who is who and how everyone is related. However, all this standard and half and step stuff adds up to one thing:  family.  Family is what you make of it.  You can choose only to accept as relations those who fit the old-fashioned mold. Or you can choose to accept life’s challenges – including two people realizing that they perhaps should no longer be married – and can adapt the notion of family as things change. I… hm… what’s the saying?  Ah, yes.  I choose love.
2. The word “family” may be fluid in its make-up, but love and security remain paramount in every definition, and it’s possible to maintain that love and security during and after a divorce. Not once do I ever recall feeling lost or alone or unloved or abandoned by either of my parents, because of the divorce or otherwise. As a parent, your child will follow your lead on how he or she should feel. If you want your kids to feel loved and secure, project that. You may go through moments of hurt or doubt during or after a divorce, but that’s your issue, not your child’s. Be the grown-up. Be the parent. Whether you are the live-in parent or the parent who now lives apart, shower the kid(s) with love and let them know you’re 100% there for them. Forever.
3. When it comes to parents and children, physical distance does not have to equal emotional distance or lack of parental involvement. Not only did my parents divorce when I was little, but not long after they split, my mother and I moved a thousand miles away from my dad. Then my father moved to Panama for a year or so, and a few years after he came back to the States, my mother and I moved another 300 miles further from him. I don’t know what it’s like to live near my father. However, I would challenge anyone on the planet to show me a more involved dad. He knew everything I was doing. He knew at least as much about my grades and activities and friends and everything else as any live-in dad would, more so than many live-in dads I’ve known. How about that connection between my dad and me, that emotional bond?  My daddy and I are tight. We always have been close. We went through the typical ups and downs during my teen years, but I’ve never felt anything but 100% loved and valued and adored and cherished by my father (I’m getting choked up typing this), even though we've lived so far apart for so long and even though he remarried and had three more children. So no, divorce and distance will not doom your child to feeling lost and less loved and less in touch with the parent who no longer is in the home. It’s not only possible but vital to keep that connection going, no matter how far away a parent lives from their child or where life takes them. It takes effort, but it’s so worth it. 
4. It’s important to be gracious about the people in your life, even those who have hurt you or gone through painful times with you. My mother never once, in all the years I was growing up, bad-mouthed my father. When he remarried, she never once bad-mouthed my stepmother. In fact, my mom never was anything but interested in how they were and excited for them in their happy moments and concerned for them during sad times. While my mom sincerely has one of the kindest hearts ever, she’s also human. I’m sure there were moments when she would have loved to have said something snarky about them or had a harmless laugh with me at their expense. But she never did. And I can say the same thing about my dad regarding my mom and stepdad. No matter how much you want to confide in your child or giggle about the other parent’s shortcomings, don’t. They’re not your friend or confidante, they’re your kid.  If there’s an opportunity to teach them grace and kindness, this is it.
5. You can remain close to a person, and even love them dearly, after a break-up. My parents have remained excellent friends for all of these years. Even my stepparents are in on this love-fest. Everyone gets along. They not only tolerate each other, they enjoy each other’s company and look out for each other. It’s fun. It freaks out my friends. The key to all of this is that they didn’t let their relationship deteriorate into disdain or hatred before ending the marriage. They tried their best, but when it became clear that, in their words, they “love each other but shouldn’t be married,” they made the tough call to divorce. Rather than despise each other for not being enough or doing enough or changing enough, they recognized that they were two human beings who simply couldn’t make a marriage work with one another. How did this impact me? Well, I never felt that I was losing a parent through the divorce. I never felt caught in a web of animosity or indifference between my parents.  I was easily able to help integrate my stepparents and siblings and extended stepfamilies into my notion of family. And in my own adult relationships, while I’ve always been ready to learn and grow and adapt as part of a couple, I also have been sure to maintain a sense of self and to recognize openly when a relationship wasn’t meant to be. Thanks to my parents and how they handled their split, I also learned to recognize that a relationship’s failure doesn’t have to equate to failure on the part of either person in the relationship… and because of that, I’ve been fortunate enough to remain friends with all of my serious exes, even my ex-husband.

There are so many additional things that my parents have taught me over the years, things that I would have learned if they’d remained married and things that I learned because they divorced. The cool thing is that although they were divorced, my mom and dad were able to teach me so much together, just as any married couple would. Not only that, but they had the added support of my stepparents.  I don’t really think of myself as having two parents and two stepparents as much as I think of myself as having four parents. And with a headstrong kid like I was, four probably were necessary to keep me in line!

All this being said, I hope that this little post might be helpful in some way for any of my friends – or anyone for that matter – who is going through or has gone through a divorce and worries about the kids. What’s that phrase that was turned into a movie title?  “The kids are alright.”  And they really can be.  How alright… well, that’s up to you.  And you’ll do beautifully. Trust me.

The Power of Beautiful

The way to a woman’s heart, my friends, is a single word:  beautiful. 

Your girlfriend feels unattractive?  Tell her she’s beautiful.  Your wife is upset about something that happened at work?  Tell her she’s beautiful.  Your daughter feels awkward or uncertain?  Tell her she’s beautiful.  Your mother is stressing about the upcoming Thanksgiving meal?  Tell her she’s beautiful.

What I’m not saying – no matter how much it sounds like it – is that it’s okay to disregard what’s actually being said and to give a pat  answer of “You’re beautiful,” thus immediately correcting all wrongs your loved one feels.  That’s not the case at all, and in fact, if you do this, you’ll just make things worse.  Consider yourself warned.

What I am saying is that of all the single words that people use to compliment women, beautiful holds the most power. It is the compliment of all compliments, one we never truly expect, one we usually don’t even dare to hope for, but one we cherish most ardently. I challenge any woman to disagree.

The thing is, beautiful is a brilliantly multifaceted word, one that is nuanced and deep and all-encompassing.

• Pretty is a good compliment. Let’s not dis “pretty.” However, let’s be honest, “pretty” is entirely surface-focused. It describes only the outside.
• Cute is also fun once in a while, but beware overuse. After a while, being “cute” can become irritating and can make a woman feel like she’s being compared to a kitten. Trust me, I’m a small female. This one I know intimately.
•  Sexy has its moments. Oh yes, yes it does. There’s fire in it. Fire can be good. After a while, though, fire sucks all the oxygen out. Put more clearly, sexy gets old quickly. Use it wisely and sparingly.
• Hot is the mean girl of female compliments. It’s the “pretty” of sexy… it’s exciting to be called “hot,” though it’s all about surface. It’s fun, but it’s shallow.
• Being called lovely can be, well, lovely. Lovely is similar to pretty, but it caresses in its nuances. There’s almost a sigh to it, a delicate stroke of the cheek, a kiss to the back of a hand.
• Adorable is the “cute” of lovely. Meow.

Beautiful outranks all of these terms in addition to the many others I didn’t include in this list. Why? Because beautiful, when spoken about a woman (as opposed to a shot on goal or a well-orchestrated sack of the quarterback), encompasses all of these words in one, but multiplied by many orders of magnitude. Then, added to this, are the elements of respect, awe, admiration and affection.  In other words, beautiful reflects something more than surface appeal; it’s a recognition of deeper beauty. The tone of the word when spoken, or the context when written, determines the final interpretation, the amount of influence held by each aspect. No matter the balance based on the context, though, the broader nature of the word remains.

This past Sunday morning, as my family and I got ready to leave the house for the day, I took a final glance in the mirror. There stood my reflection, staring back at me – not a stitch of makeup on my face, glasses firmly in place, short hair unstyled and a bit crazy. Walking into the kitchen a moment later, I looked at my husband, smiled brightly and said, “Nothing more I can do, nothing more I’m willing to do this fine morning. The world will just have to deal with me like this.”  He looked squarely at me, and in a tone that left no room for argument, stated simply, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re beautiful.” And from that moment on, for the rest of the day, beautiful is exactly how I felt, both inside and out.

Dear Breastfeeding Momma in my Yard

Dear Momma who Breastfeeds in front of my House every few Days:

Let me start by assuring you that I am fully supportive of breastfeeding.  I think it's a wonderful thing to do for and with your infant if you so choose.  I did it with my little Bear (Ballerina needed special formula, so I couldn't with her), including feeding him in a few public places when he was tiny.  By no means am I prudish about this form of activity and nourishment.

This all being said, I'm the littlest bit intrigued by your choice of mid-morning breastfeeding location these days.  Every few days, you walk or run past my house... but almost without fail, you stop directly in front of my house to feed your infant.  I'll be in the middle of working on an Excel spreadsheet; I'll glance up for a moment, and there you are, chilling out, feeding your tiny guy and saying hi to the cyclists riding past on their way to the trails.

If (1) there was no place nearby to sit comfortably and (2) infants weren't relatively scheduled little beings, I'd be less confused.  However...

• Infants tend to get hungry on a pretty consistent schedule. From my experience, you can practically set your clock by their pre-meal agitation. You seem quite willing to feed your little guy when he's ready to eat, and I assume you are aware of what time he gets hungry. Are you simply keen on feeding him in that particular spot?
• There is a park/greenway literally 0.1 miles from my house, and there is a bench just inside the entrance of said greenway. In fact, I suspect you walk and/or run on this greenway after you feed your little guy. Sitting on the bench seems far more comfortable - to me, of course - than holding an infant in a feeding position while standing on the edge of a road. (Today you even got all fancy, doing leg-lifts while your little guy latched and ate. That is seriously impressive.)

Trust me, this is not a complaint.  I don't mind you feeding your little guy in front of my house.  It just truly keeps catching me off-guard.

In fact, I'm seriously considering putting out an Adirondack chair for you for next time you walk past.  In case that's helpful.

Bear's Invitation To Steve Carell

A few nights ago, we asked Bear whom he would like to invite to his 7th birthday party.  We're succumbing to the Chuck E Cheese phenomenon, but we have to keep the list small (we're cheap like that), so we needed Bear to really be on board with the guest list.

Bear quickly rattled off a set of names, and I wrote down the list. When we got to the final spot, Bear's face broke into a huge smile and he said, "And for the last spot, I will invite Mister Steve Carell!"

Bear's invitation. My "typo." Sorry, Mr. Carell.

Because this statement was so entirely out of any context of any kind, it took me a moment to recognize the name. My thoughts ran through a sequence something akin to Is that a camp counselor? The name sounds so familiar. A teacher from his elementary school? Someone who cut his hair before? A karate instructor? A barista?

When my brain finally recognized Steve Carell, I very carefully asked Bear, "Um... huh?" to which he cheerfully replied, "I love his movies! I'm inviting him. I can't wait until he comes to my party!"

So there you go. Invitation written and published. I've done my part. Now I can focus on the goody bags.

**Quick Note: When I asked Bear exactly which Steve Carell movies he likes so much, he clarified, "The ones he's in, of course."  Of course.

**Follow-Up: Bear has now made (with my help, of course) a brief video invitation for Mr. Carell. Enjoy. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-yToKS86hOA

So, I Have a Great Idea...

This is yesterday’s post-school-pick-up, in-the-car conversation with my 6-year-old.  That’s all the set-up this needs.  And all the hyphens it needs as well.

BEAR:  So, I have a great idea.

ME:  Yes?

BEAR:  You can give me maybe three hundred dollars or so, and then I can get my own iPhone with its own phone and apps, and then I won’t have to use yours.

ME:  Hm.  Interesting.  No.

BEAR:  [incredulous] No???

ME:  Nope.  It’s highly unlikely you’ll get your own phone for quite some time.

BEAR:  When?

ME:  I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it. But at six… no.

BEAR:  When?

ME:  Not for a while.

BEAR:  When?

ME:  Jeez… maybe in middle school.

BEAR:  When’s middle school?

ME:  Sixth grade.

BEAR:  So in a little over four years?

ME:  Good math.  Look, I honestly don’t know when you'll get a phone. No promises. Maybe high school.

BEAR:  When’s that?

ME:  Ninth grade.

BEAR:  So maybe seven years?

ME:  Possibly. I really don’t know. Quit it.

BEAR:  Yesssss!!!

ME:  Glad that makes you happy.

BEAR:  [without a pause in the conversation] May I get my pilot’s license?

ME:  Your what? Your pilot’s license? Like to fly a plane?

BEAR:  Yeah.

ME:  Um, someday. Sure. Though I’m pretty certain it’ll be a few years until you’re old enough. You may need to be at least old enough to drive a car.

BEAR:  Which is how old?

ME:  Sixteen.

BEAR:  Forget the pilot’s license.  I just need a phone so I can do my job.

ME:  Your job...

BEAR:  Yes, I’m going to be a cop.

ME:  You are? That’s great.

BEAR:  Well, okay, I’m retiring from being a cop.

ME:  Already? You’re a very young retiree. I’m not sure you even qualify for social security.

BEAR:  Well, it’s time.

ME:  Will you have another career?

BEAR:  I want to be a travel worker.

ME:  Um… a what?

BEAR:  A travel worker. Like you. I want to work from my house, with you, and then travel to visit people, with you.

 

This has nothing to do with this topic. I just like sharing it. Because... yay me.

I’ve now figured out how to describe my job to people, who always get confused when I try to explain what I do. From now on, two words suffice:  travel worker.

Mother of the Year

Tonight I made Bagel Bites for my Bear for dinner.  You’ve seen these things, haven’t you?  They’re essentially tiny pizza bagels.  They’re sold and stored frozen; you can cook them in the oven, toaster or microwave.  They’re chock full of nutrients (not), so an ideal dinner for a growing boy (again, not).

Prior to being cooked, the cheese on top of the bagel bites looks like solid little white squares.  As you can see from the photo below, many of the little square cheese bits on the Bagel Bites don’t actually melt flat but remain in various states of square-dom post-heating.

Mmm... such organic, healthy goodness. 

Now that you have the low-down on Bagel Bites, I can proceed with the telling of tonight’s tale.  We were sitting at the dinner table – Bear eating his Bagel Bites, Ballerina and my husband and I eating pasta – when Bear’s little hand suddenly hovered in front of my face. His 6-year-old fingers held what looked like a tiny mass of two or three somewhat unmelted cheese bits.

“Mom,” he said, “is this a tooth? Did I just lose a tooth?”

“Um…,” I stalled, trying to sort out the right response. “Have you had a loose tooth this week?”

“No,” stated Bear.

Full of confidence, I replied, with conviction, “Then no, it’s not a tooth. No worries. Just eat it.”

Bear looked at me with the slightest hint of doubt, but he dutifully put the little blob back in his mouth and crunched down.  He looked at me as he ground down this little bite and swallowed it.  Then dinner continued as usual, and all was forgotten.  Until…

At bedtime, I went to Bear’s room to have our usual little pre-sleep chat.  He was on the ground playing with a few Lego Star Wars figures, so I laid down on the ground near him and propped up my head in my hands, getting comfy for our good night ritual. Something I said to Bear made him smile, and that’s when I noticed this:

See the gap just to the left of Bear’s front tooth?  Yeah, um, that’s what I saw. As it happens, that gap is brand new. Fresh. Wasn’t there earlier today, if you get what I’m saying. And if you don’t, let me spell it out for you.

1. Tonight, I fed my child a really poor excuse of a dinner.
2. During this poor excuse of a dinner, I made my child eat the tiny tooth he lost during said poor excuse of a dinner.

Fortunately, Bear finds this immensely funny. He also realized, after he finished laughing at me, that the opposite tiny tooth is loose, which excites him to no end. Of course, Bear was relieved to hear that the Tooth Fairy magically is aware that he lost a tooth - even though we have no actual tooth to show for it - and will be bringing him some nice pocket change.

And the best part is that all of this gloriousness happened on Mother’s Day. 

Heartless Murder of an Imaginary Friend

I’m a big softy and a sucker for a cause, especially any cause that promises to improve the lives of children in some way – preventing bullying, providing wigs for kids, curing childhood cancer...  

Still, “caring” and “compassionate” weren’t always adjectives that could describe me.  My nature from birth was more inclined toward strict pragmatism, even bordering - for much of my youth - on coldly calculating practicality.  It took many years for me to develop even what I’d consider a “normal” level of empathy and kindness, much less the overflowing blob of emotion that I now can harbor when I’m confronted with the injustices of the world.

Case in point:  My imaginary friend.  According to my mother, when I was 2 or 3 I had an imaginary friend.  It’s something that I forget about most of the time, but the other day I was reminded of this when I found myself answering a slew of questions – asked by my little daughter – about the untimely demise of a child’s imaginary friend in the movie “Parental Guidance.” (If you have not seen this flick, give it a shot. It’s very cute.)

According to my mother, my imaginary friend was named Dansindoor.  I can only speculate about the actual spelling of his name, as I didn’t know how to spell back when my imaginary friend told me his name, so just go with me on this.  And to answer your next question, no, I have no memory of him whatsoever.  See?  Callous.  But it gets worse.  Far worse.

Apparently, Dansindoor was very small and lived in my pocket.  Once in a while, I would take him out and hold him up in the palm of my hand, and we would sing songs to people.  When we were finished singing, I would return Dansindoor to the cozy confines of my pocket.  (I have no idea where I kept him when I didn’t have a pocket in my clothing, though perhaps he lived in an imaginary pocket in that case.  See how that whole imaginary thing works?)

Anyway, as the story goes, one day I apparently no longer needed Dansindoor. Did I wish him a fond, tearful farewell? No. Did I have a long talk with my parents about the fact that I was ready to confront the world on my own terms? Nope. This is what I did:  I took Dansindoor out of my pocket and sang to someone – my mother, I assume, as she’s the one who tells me this sordid story. When we were done with our final little ditty, I looked at the invisible little being standing on my palm and said, “Good-bye, Dansindoor.” Then, with my other hand, I swiftly and unceremoniously clapped down, squashing my imaginary friend into oblivion.

That’s right. I murdered my imaginary friend. In cold blood. With no remorse.

Pretty bad, right?  Yeah, I thought so, too. 

But that’s not exactly the end of the story. Not anymore. Because the other day, as I recounted this to my children during their ride home from school, this was their response:

Bear (6):  “That is the most terrible thing you’ve ever told me. You should never kill your friends, even imaginary ones. Never tell me about that again.”

Ballerina (5):  “Mommy! That story was awesome! My favorite part was when you said, ‘Good-bye, Dasindoor,’ and then you squashed him! Can you tell it again?”

Are You Ready to Get Some?

Men!  Now that I have your attention…  Valentine’s Day is rapidly approaching.  You know what that means:  you and your romantic gestures are about to go under the microscope. 

Many women will state that they don’t really care about Valentine’s Day, that it’s a Hallmark holiday that doesn’t really matter.  For a few of us, that may hold true.  (And yes, “us.” I’m a pathetic, sappy, uber-romantic who actually doesn’t care all that much about Valentine’s Day.  But this post isn’t about me.)  For many women, however, Valentine’s Day is a huge opportunity for each of you men to be a hero.

BUT – and there’s always a but, isn’t there (and some buts are bigger than others) – if you are in a longer-term relationship, don’t expect the magic of Valentine’s Day to be a cure-all for your relationship woes.  If you want the attention and adoration of your female partner, both on Valentine’s Day and throughout the year, here are a few quick suggestions:

• Be Considerate, Make Her Feel Adored:  Do you remember early in your relationship when you would do little things to make her think fondly of you?  Well… do you still do things like that?  Do what my friend L's husband does for her... Send her little notes that let her know you’re thinking of her. Help her find time to do something for herself. Give her a foot rub or neck rub without her having to ask. Bring her flowers or her favorite candy or a knick-knack for her desk for no reason. Don't expect anything in return. Just do it.
• Don’t “Fix” Her:  Look, none of us is perfect.  Not one of us.  Not even models, if they are to be believed when they go on and on about how they're all airbrushed.  I, for one, tend to believe - as do about 98.3% of all straight adult males - that the models are lying and that they're actually just that perfect and that they came up with this airbrushed nonsense in order not to be hated as much by "normal" women. But I digress.  The point I was making is to please realize that if you recognize a flaw of your partner's, it’s likely she not only recognizes it as well but is 182 times more aware of it than you are.  You know what, interestingly, will improve her flaws far better than pointing them out, picking at them or passive-aggressively trying to get her to fix them?  Try this... pay attention to and compliment those things about her that you find attractive.  Repeat.  Repeat again.  It’s almost magical how quickly the flaws lose their prominence among all that adoration.
• Tell Her You Appreciate Her:  We all know how much it stings when we try to tackle something – around the house, at work, etc. – and the first words someone throws our way are criticisms about how we could have done it, whatever it is, better. Take that kind of insight and use it to remember not to nitpick. Instead, identify what she does well, or even simply what she tries to do, and let her know you appreciate her efforts. When my family has dinner around the dining table, my husband always thanks me for cooking, whether the meal is stellar or so-so, and his gesture never fails to bring a smile to my face and warm my heart.
• Let Her Know You Respect Her:  Women are a bit of a quandary.  If you compliment a woman’s looks too much but don’t let her know you respect her, she’ll worry you only want her for her physical attractiveness.  Tell her too much that you respect her without letting her know you think she is attractive, and she will worry you don’t think she’s attractive.  Yes, we’re annoying like that.  Be that as it may, be sure you actually converse with your girlfriend or wife, and not just about household stuff or family stuff or kid stuff.  Ask for her opinion or insight, and then listen.  Listen for real.
• Tell Her She Is Beautiful:  This is one that I think is often misconstrued by men, so listen carefully… when I say tell her she is beautiful, what I mean is this:  Tell her she is beautiful.  “Pretty” is all about looks, and that’s fine but not the same.  Same goes for “cute,” unless you’re kidding about something she said or did.  “Hot” is too sex-laden and gets old quickly. There is something special and precious about being called beautiful.  Maybe it’s that beautiful is so multi-faceted, and as such it allows a woman a little room for interpretation. Beautiful can refer to facial loveliness, and it can refer to a woman’s physique. Beautiful can mean something beyond pretty in the physical sense, even an aura.  And beautiful, of course, can refer to a woman’s heart.  Beautiful is a special word that is often reserved for someone who is beyond the norm.  So tell her she is beautiful. And mean it.

Finally - and this one is important - tell her that you love her.  I don’t mean the cursory “I love you” we all say to a long-term partner at the end of a phone call or as we say good-night.  I don’t mean the light-hearted but fully felt “I love you” that some of us say to our good friends. (I tell my best friend several times a week that I love her. Because I do.)  I mean take a non-routine moment to look in her eyes and tell her, while she is listening, that you love her. 

And, just like when you tell her she is beautiful… mean it.

Voices

Happy 2013! 

Today's post - as often is the case on this blog - is completely random and unrelated to anything in the past.  On this fine January 2, I thought I'd share with you a short story.

If you don't like short stories, no worries.  Just close the window and come back another time.  

Otherwise... enjoy....

VOICES

January 2, 2013

"Darling, you know I would hold your hand if I could."

His words hover near her ear as she walks in quick, small steps up the narrow city sidewalk. She doesn't look over or up or even at the scene ahead. Her eyes fixate on the pavement a few yards in front of her as if she is terrified of having to acknowledge anything other than crooked concrete.

"I know it's not the same," she hears him say, "but imagine my hand closed snugly around yours, our fingers entwined. Can you try that for me? With me?"

Against her will, she finds herself trying to imagine his hand holding hers.  She can almost feel phantom fingers, warm and strong, tenderly wrapped in an embrace around her own.  Her heart flutters in her small chest, and she feels her throat tighten the slightest bit.

Without a word or any sign that she hears him, she continues down the sidewalk, her small shoes snick-snick-snicking as motorcars rumble past and the noise and grey smell and winter wind of the city weigh and press around her.

His voice reaches her again. "My sweet, I wish you would speak to me. I miss your voice. Your wit. Your beautiful laugh which so brightens my heart."

Her heel catches in a sidewalk crevice, tripping her.  Her small, gloved hands flail slightly as she struggles to regain her footing.  She manages to right herself and avoid the humiliation of collapsing in a heap on the cold pavement. She stands stock still for a moment, eyes closed, jaw clenched, trying to regain her composure, her breath and her self control.

When the world beneath her feels stable once again, she opens her eyes and watches the traffic and the bustle around her, deciding if she will continue the last few blocks to her destination. She desperately wants to go, wants to be with him even if the situation has to be so tragically, heartbreakingly imperfect, but she doesn't know if she can survive this.

She adjusts her hat, which has fallen askew, checks her gloves, her skirts, her heel, even her handbag, as she struggles to make her decision. Finally, she gives her head a curt shake to clear it, straightens her shoulders and, finally looking forward, continues on her way.

She turns a corner onto a quiet side street, the sounds and movement of the city becoming muffled and cottony. She is approaching her destination. Her heart pounds and swells with worry and pain.

"You know how I feel about you, or at least by now you should," she hears him say, his voice husky in her ear.

Those words hang in the winter air, soothing and stinging at the same time.  Tears spring up at the corners of her eyes. She tries to blink them away, but one manages to escape and drift, rebellious and heavy, alongside her nose and down to her upper lip where she wipes it away with a gloved finger.

She turns right at the end of the city block and approaches a low gate, and there she stops. She reaches over and grips the top of the gate with one hand, steadying herself as a wave of vertigo washes over her.

"I want so much for you to be happy, my love. My heart aches to see you so sad. You are so very dear to me."

She stands still in the silence that follows, waiting for... she doesn't know what.  Her eyes focus firmly on the ground by her feet.  Rather than a bland sidewalk, she now stands upon a red brick walkway.  Close, to her left, she can see the lower leg of his expensive trousers and the toes of his glossy black shoes. 

His feet shift undecidedly for a moment, then move past her through the gate. She allows her gaze to draw upward and follow the path of his heavy, black wool overcoat. His shoulders droop forward slightly, and she senses sadness in the set of his jaw.

He pauses at the point on the brick path where his next step will carry him out of her view behind a formidable red brick building. His dark eyes look directly into hers, holding her gaze, her attention, her soul.

"You know that I..."

He seems to struggle for a moment to find the right words, then stops and falls permanently silent.  He sets his shoulders back, high and confident, though his stance does little to dissipate the concern in his eyes. He holds her gaze for a moment longer, then turns and continues down the path and out of sight.

For long minutes, she stares at the spot where he last existed for her. When she feels she can walk steadily once again, she passes through the gate and follows the path that he broached. She wants to run after him, to throw decorum and pride to the wind, but her long skirts, snug corset and slim-heeled shoes keep her stride and her dignity in check.

She passes into the dimness between two buildings and, several feet along the path, arrives at elegant, wide double doors containing broad panes of clear glass that allowed an unobstructed view of a large ballroom. Within, gleaming wood-paned walls and light from dark yellow sconces display the promise of warmth and ease. A happy gathering is in progress, and well heeled partygoers talk and laugh with one another.

A uniformed doorman opens one of the double doors and directs her inside to an attended greeting table. She opens her handbag and finds the small, square card on which her invitation is inscribed. As she frees the card from the bag, she glances up and sees him several feet away standing among a small throng. His back is to her, but his features are etched in her memory. A tall, slender woman stands to his left, her hand resting in the crook of his arm with the assurance of years of familiarity. She is attractive with a ready, assured smile and the relaxed but upright stance of a woman certain of herself and of her place.

Slowly, her eyes never leaving the two of them, she places the invitation back inside her handbag. She smiles apologetically at the woman minding the greeting table. Then, without a final look at the couple, she turns and walks through the double doors into the darkening afternoon.

************

Not far away, in another section of the city...

"Darling, you know I would hold your hand if I could."

His words hover near her ear as she walks in quick, small steps up the narrow city sidewalk. She doesn't look over or up or even at the scene ahead. Her eyes fixate on the pavement a few yards in front of her as if she is terrified of having to acknowledge anything other than crooked concrete.

"I know it's not the same," she hears him say, "but imagine my hand closed snugly around yours, our fingers entwined. Can you try that for me? With me?"

Against her will, she finds herself trying to imagine his hand holding hers.  She can almost feel phantom fingers, warm and strong, tenderly wrapped in an embrace around her own.  Her heart flutters in her small chest, and she feels her throat tighten the slightest bit.

Without a word or any sign that she hears him, she continues down the sidewalk, her small shoes snick-snick-snicking as motorcars rumble past and the noise and grey smell and winter wind of the city weigh and press around her.

His voice reaches her again. "My sweet, I wish you would speak to me. I miss your voice. Your wit. Your beautiful laugh which so brightens my heart."

Her heel catches in a sidewalk crevice, tripping her.  Her small, gloved hands flail slightly as she struggles to regain her footing.  She manages to right herself and avoid the humiliation of collapsing in a heap on the cold pavement. She stands stock still for a moment, eyes closed, jaw clenched, trying to regain her composure, her breath and her self control.

When the world beneath her feels stable once again, she opens her eyes and watches the traffic and the bustle around her, deciding if she will continue the last few blocks to her destination. She desperately wants to go, wants to be with him even if the situation has to be so tragically, heartbreakingly imperfect, but she doesn't know if she can survive this.

She adjusts her hat, which has fallen askew, checks her gloves, her skirts, her heel, even her handbag, as she struggles to make her decision. Finally, she gives her head a curt shake to clear it, straightens her shoulders and, finally looking forward, continues on her way.

She turns a corner onto a quiet side street, the sounds and movement of the city becoming muffled and cottony. She is approaching her destination. Her heart pounds and swells with worry and pain.

"You know how I feel about you, or at least by now you should," she hears him say, his voice husky in her ear.

Those words hang in the winter air, soothing and stinging at the same time.  Tears spring up at the corners of her eyes. She tries to blink them away, but one manages to escape and drift, rebellious and heavy, alongside her nose and down to her upper lip where she wipes it away with a gloved finger.

She turns right at the end of the city block and approaches a low gate, and there she stops. She reaches over and grips the top of the gate with one hand, steadying herself as a wave of vertigo washes over her.

"I want so much for you to be happy, my love. My heart aches to see you so sad. You are so very dear to me."

She stands still in the silence that follows, waiting for... she doesn't know what.  Her eyes focus firmly on the ground by her feet.  Rather than a bland sidewalk, she now stands upon a gravel walkway.  With tremendous force of will, she slides her gaze along the gravel path until her eyes take in the landscape in front of her.

Several feet down the path, green lawns expand outward in softly rolling hillocks.  Placed with care among the grass, flowers and occasional tree, small headstones stand patient and silent next to one another in tidy rows.

For long minutes, she stares transfixed at one point on the lawns, a rise away. When she feels she can trust her legs once again, she takes a steadying breath and walks slowly through the gate.

She follows the path as it weaves through the landscape and arrives at the small, white rectangle that bears his name. She stares at it, willing his name to disappear in favor of another, to fall away, to simply not exist.  

She finds herself envisioning him as he looked the day they parted, his smile both reassuring in its warmth and terrifying for the fear he was trying so desperately yet unsuccessfully to hide.

Thoughts and doubts swim through her mind. She should have brought flowers. She should have worn the green dress he loved. Was it dark underground? He would have loved the view along these lawns almost hidden within the city. He never gave much thought to flowers anyway, except to give them to her. What does it matter what she wore? He will never see her again.

He will never see her again. Ever.

And although she heard his voice speaking to her as she made her way here, she has not heard him since passing through the gate. She hears only the whisper of the chill breeze and the distant whir of the city and her own shallow breath. And silence.

Her legs crumple beneath her in front of the stone bearing his name.

And there she kneels. And weeps.