It’s funny how, when I think back on that night, I can see the silence was bigger than anything else. It was bigger than the darkness. It was bigger than the moonlight that dappled the room with lacey patterns through the curtain at the front window. It was bigger than him, sitting on that sofa. It was bigger than me, standing in the doorway. That night, everything seemed bigger than me. The clock ticked. The children were upstairs sleeping but I swear I could hear them breathing. Soft, rhythmic, surrendered. But there, in that little living room: Silence. He sat. Across the room, I stood.
“How much of you did she have?” The words hung in the air like balls, floating on water. I heard them, then realized it was my own voice.
“She had all of me.”
In the room: Silence.
In my head: A sort of screaming that, though through the years would grow faint, would never, ever stop.
No one tells you that your moment of confirmation, of validation, can also be the single most horrifying moment of your life. What do you do, once you hold the truth? Where do you go with it? What pocket do you tuck it into? Do you take it, like old ticket stubs, and paste it in into a scrapbook? Do you also glue pictures of your heart, the night it shattered?
Strength is sometimes overrated. But in the end, it’s strength you need, if only to find your bones, and tell them to stand up, to move your body forward, mind your broken heart, and – because you have not yet been given a pass to leave the planet – carry on as best they can.