Reminiscences

I left a note. Despite a thumping heart and unsteady hands, I resolved to leave that much of myself behind: words on a college ruled page torn from his now-tattered notebook. The notebook was as old as our love, and the receding corners and faded letters of the cover betrayed its age upon first glance. I clutched the just-finished note in my shaky right hand as I stared into the toothpaste-stained glass of the old medicine cabinet. My eyes oscillated between the rusty faucet underneath, the slow single-droplet drip from its head, the cabinet’s chipped corners that we’d resolved to fix over a hundred times, and back to my own aging face staring back at me—three distinct lines now cut across my forehead even when relaxed. My left hand instinctively went up to trace these new permanent residents of my face, my mouth agape, aghast, as I widened and shrunk my eyes, observing the lines becoming deeper and shallower with the movement, but always prominently visible.

Abruptly, I turned away from the mirror with a deep sigh, my breath catching at the back of my mouth, causing me to cough and slightly cry, as if I’d suddenly forgotten how to breathe. I grasped onto the original brass doorknob of the bathroom door, steadying myself. My attention was brought fully upon the doorknob as I realized I’d never before studied its intricate design of leaf-adorned branches entwining, spiraling together like complementary strands of DNA. We had lived here for seven years, and yet I had never noticed this pattern on something I had touched and turned multiple times a day for years. What else had I missed? I had always considered myself an observant person—after all, I am a market research professional—but my perceived identity was falling apart right before my eyes. My mind could no longer maintain that fantastical version of myself when presented with so many contrary facts. Most damningly, I had no inkling of the depth of my husband’s unhappiness until sneaking into his smartwatch mere hours ago.

“I’m heading to bed, babe,” he said sleepily, a half-yawn curling the contours of his skinny pink lips as his hand perfunctorily ruffled my thick black hair.

“Okay, I’ll be up soon,” I replied without betraying my ill-intentioned plan. I’d been thinking about reading his text messages all day, but surprised even myself with my ability to deliver my reflexive bedtime reply as if it were any old night. My expression relayed this confusion at my own rascality, my eyes squinting and upper lip rising to meet them, but my husband didn’t notice, now yawning fully as he turned away to head up the stairs, granting me my wish to potentially sink the trust we’d patiently built over fourteen mostly happy years.

I stood, and slowly, uncertainly, walked to the kitchen sink for a glass of water, a surprisingly dire thirst having just made itself known to me.

“What are you doing?” I whispered demandingly, throwing both hands in front of me as young children do when especially impassioned. Self-accusations flooded into my consciousness like waves crashing ashore: he would never look at your texts; your hypocrisy is rich, as you’re the one who considers himself “spiritual;” why don’t you just go to him and demand to see his texts since you’re so certain he’s cheating, you coward?

As if someone had suddenly pressed Ctrl + Alt + Delete and forced quit those ruminations, my mind went blank and I headed straight to the dining room armoire—our makeshift charging station. I lifted the watch from its base, entered the four-digit code I had watched him input from over his shoulder before a run a few days ago, and smiled in spite of myself at the two large owl eyes that stared back at me on the watch face. I felt as if the owl saw right through me: I know what you’re up to. What if you’re wrong? You are likely making a fool of yourself and he will know what you did; you’ve never been able to hide a transgression in your life, you acquiescent grafter, you rule-abiding worker bee. Quit pretending you’re someone else. Go up to bed and forget this madness that has come over you.

I stared deeply into the owl’s eyes that stared back at me from the poorly pixelated picture of a barn owl we had seen resting atop a street sign a few weeks ago on our way home from watching the movie Respect at a small, local indie theater. Damn you. The picture triggered the memory of the only other time we had seen an owl in the wild: an old memory, from our courtship.

~~~

It had been a perfect late-summer day. He took me to his rural Ohio’s hometown fair where we played skee-ball, grotesquely ate turkey legs, bravely rode a portable ferris wheel, and admired the submissions of local artists in categories ranging from photography to quilting to homebrewing (which had already been judged, unfortunately). Tired and full—of both food and happiness—we took a joyride on dirt roads lined by corn stalks at the height of their growth while singing along to The Black Keys’ El Camino album. In a fit of passion, he drove off the road onto a narrow trail cutting through the corn.

“What are you doing!” I protested, clutching the CRV’s cloth armrests.

“Having a little fun,” he smirked. “What’s the worst that could happen? We fulfill a farm owner's deepest desire to be exalted by Christ for shooting two young lads who’ve been overtaken by a sinful desire implanted by Satan?”

“Yes, that’s exactly the worst that can happen!” I laughed despite myself.

He stopped in what felt like the very center of the field and turned off the engine. The new quiet allowed the wind rustling through the corn stalks to sound as though it was whistling just for us. Never had I felt so alone and yet so at home. He leaned over, grabbed the back of my head with a delicate violence, and kissed me passionately. It felt like I had been transported to a different plane. His scent, which defied description in my vocabulary, flooded my being and laid me down to rest in his embrace. I don’t know how much time passed until the next words were spoken as we lied naked in the back of the SUV, staring out the rear window at the setting sun.

“That was fun,” he innocently peeped. We laughed for an inordinate amount of time until an owl’s screech caused us both to gasp. Sitting up, hands clasped together, we watched in awe as the majestic bird glided over the field, the setting sun signaling to it that it was time to hunt.

~~~

With tears now blurring my vision, I steeled myself and clicked the little green circle containing a white thought bubble within its borders and saw the conversation that delivered both death and rebirth. I was right. So, why did I still feel like a fool? Where was the anger? Or, shouldn’t there at least be a feeling of redemption from my guilt? No, there was only shame. I had allowed our love, once transcendent, to become just another commonplace temporary affair that couldn’t even withstand the temptation of a fit (and boastfully hung) young boy. I had no desire to click into the several other no-name conversations, so I placed the watch back onto its charger and retraced my steps to the kitchen sink. Maybe if I just rewound myself over the last few hours I’d end up back on the couch to naively accept my lover’s habitual goodnight hair tousle and, eventually, I’d be back in his arms in the back of his endearingly old and rusty SUV, ready to once again embark on building a life together.

No, our fairy tale love was over. I stood at the sink head down, heart broken open, hands resting on the cold cast iron. Maybe I fell asleep, maybe I just soundlessly weeped through the night, but the next thing I was consciously aware of was my body jerking upright as a familiar screech cut through the quiet of the night and my heavy eyes processed the new light of the sunrise reflected off the wondrously white feathers of an owl with a rat clutched in its mouth: a successful night’s hunt.

A fitting final note. Our love, at first exultant and fierce, arriving with the raspy cry of a night huntress, spreading its wings and flexing its freedom, had slowly dwindled over fourteen years as responsibilities, impulsive words, daily monotonies, diverging desires, and aging bodies and minds finally made their cries of impermanence heard in the deepest recesses of our distanced hearts. The night of our love had come to an end. As I continued to peer out the painted-shut window above our limescale-stained kitchen sink, the slowly strengthening light of the rising sun matched the new feeling hatching in my heart: fear and freedom, uncertainty and exhilaration. A new day had dawned. Slowly, but with sure steps, I turned away from the beauty of the sunrise to pen my final note to my former lover that would cause our love to permanently set.