washwords

*B* tells me they’re having troubles. Baby-making troubles.

B, the friend who spread out a blanket with me in the wet bluegreen grass outside our dorm room so we could have a slumber party under the stars (while our suitemates went clubbing). B, who when I broached the unspeakable … “divorce”, asked me earnestly, warmly “so what if you do?” allowing me to be okay in the eyes of at least one human.

Other friends said my voice changed whenever I talked to B. We’d listen to jazz in the dark or eat cheese and grapes or go for snowy walks. We’d joke that it was too bad we weren’t attracted to women – marrying each other would be so much simpler. But in truth, I was glad we weren’t; asexually,we were able to love each other so much more – more purely, more authentically.

So when she writes me out of the blue that she is hurting and fearful and ashamed, I tell her what I know to be true: that God is not punishing her, that as she so often told me that God has a plan, for her precious gifts too.

And B, my pastor friend, spiritual counselor, doctor of theology, says thanks.

I tell her I wish I could have a baby for her, because I am just not sure I want a baby of my own, full as my heart is with love for my niece and the kids in my life; I’m just surprisingly not sure it is for me any more.

She says her acupuncturist gave her a CD called “open your heart to a new life”

“And,” says B “I realized I wasn’t sure I wanted to open my heart to a new life.”

I say I understand. I do. But I hope she can and does. She has so many gifts in that heart.

this i believe: people can heal.

things and people and life can hurt. intentionally or not.

but people can heal.

happiness, ultimately, is at least part choice, even (especially) when it does not feel like it. And it’s so much easier to choose happy.

I get to the starbucks where we’re supposed to meet.The one you sent me copied from the web page. the one that’s south of the metro but north of the circle., not north of the metro and south of the circle. It’s 5:58. I’m right on time.

I hope you’re there first. I look for you ahead of me, behind me on the long escalator up and down the rainy sidewalks, through the glass windows of the starbucks, but you’re not there. I pull the door and it’s locked.

I pace, wondering – are you lost? Is it my fault, if so? Will you be coming down the street? Do you still have the same coat?  Why is Starbucks locked? Is that my fault, too?

When you arrive, some 10 or 15 minutes later, I tell you starbucks is closed. Of course it is. We both laugh, tightly.

Sitting in a different coffee place, not getting waited on and chit-chat over, I push you to tell me so you do.

“Well, I’m engaged.”

I nod and say congratulations and that I’m glad for you, I really am.

Should I ask about her, the wedding, the plans? Is she like me? Do you ever by accident speak “our language” to her? Do you miss me? Did we make a mistake getting married? Getting divorced? Do you know that I’m sorry?

I ask a few polite questions instead of any of these. I suggest ways she can get to work… then wonder aloud why I am planning my ex-husband’s fiance’s commute.

No one takes our order. You say maybe it wasn’t meant to be and that you had a headache anyway, so we step outside. I say we could walk around the block. You say you’d better go.We hug and I say goodbye and that I’m happy for you, really I am, and use your name because it is a Big Moment.I don’t turn back. I go straight home, taking deep breaths, wiping my eyes.

I open the door.

I am home.