NaCreSoMo Day 3 

There is something about being 25 that I can’t explain. One moment it’s a celebration, a realization that you’ve truly entered adulthood and are on your way to success. 5 years until kids, no problem. Two feet secure on the ground. 

Two months later, shattered and weeping in a queen bed once too small for two, now an ocean for one. You stack books and clothes and blankets on the other side, unconsciously creating an illusion of companionship in the dark. When you roll over, the sharp pain from a bound corner reminds you that the warm body of company is sleeping soundly in the room next door. 

You busy yourself and find that it’s easy until returning home to find him cooking in the kitchen. You reach out to hold him, busy at the stove, before remembering that touch is poisonous. You separate what was once shared, find names in sharpie written on items from when one was two. 

You cry. You find ways to cope that aren’t really coping but are the best you have. You realize that some bad habits truly die hard and that somewhere inside is that lonely little girl from high school who was suicidal but too afraid of death to try. You stare into the lights of the city and wonder whether 25 is really any closer to God than 15. 

You think of all the things you wish he would say. Everything you want to hear that you never will, just like last time. Apologies that will never come, reminders that this happened before and six years later there is still a hole that will never be fully repaired. Still a box in the attic with pictures and books and notes you know you should throw out but somehow still hold a piece of you locked away. Worry that it will happen again, that there is a slice of this still beating heart that will never return from this experiment in love. 

Resign yourself to trying because that is all that is ever left. Hope that somewhere out there, a perfect shoe sits on a shelf and you’ll be lucky enough to find it. That maybe this time it won’t take another 6 years, another broken heart, another box in the attic, another unspoken apology to find it. 

25 is no longer a gift, but a warning. A fear of choices, a fear of time running out. Love or love of career, travel or staying put, single motherhood or letting precious time slip through your fingers. 25 is a curse. It is blessed darkness. And then you realize that 25 is just a repeat of 15, Amanorenya. 

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One Response

  1. Heartbreaking, and too true 😦

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