I feel guilty writing the word grief, like it doesn’t belong to me. Just like I felt embarrassed to write the word wife, since it always felt like it belonged to anyone but me. But in my grief, I come undone. I unravel until I am just a shadow of the woman I once was. You tell me you cannot understand why I have to start my life over. I tell you I think you are naive about the consequences of divorce.
In my grief, I go to the dance floor. I weep into my hands while drinking a $20 negroni. New York is so exhausting these days. Do you find that, too, I wonder? I also wonder: is it worth it—this American Dream we worked so hard for?
In my unraveling. I go to every corner of the world, kissing men until I forget your name. But of course I can’t forget the name my life orbited around. Of course I will never forget you, not for a single moment. I wonder how many years I will spend thinking of you that you will spend not thinking of me.
On September 17th, I spoke to your father under the ginkgo tree. We spoke for an hour. I asked him to forgive me, and to take care of you. Did he send you a sign? He told me he would, he would send you a sign. He told me he would take care of you. Por favor, take care of you.
The wounds are visible, they vibrate all around me. I live inside them, in our home, the home you left me in while I was on the floor, begging you to stay, grasping for your legs. I forgot when I did that that we don’t forget our memories. I tried to forget but it lives in my nightmares—Please, don’t go. Please, tell me what I can do. Please, I love you. I love you, amor.
In my grief, I wish to abandon the past like the past abandoned me. I wish to climb to the tallest mountain and announce to the world that I am healed. That my fragile heart no longer aches. I wish, I wish, I wish…but I am still splintered. I am still in fragments. I am still between us and me. I forget myself.
I think how I can’t live without you and I think how you choose to live without me. In my grief, I unravel.