The weather has turned cold, the days shorter. And this first hint of winter makes me crave hot chocolate, fuzzy slippers and a warm body sleeping beside me. It is this time of year, need it or not, that these feelings overtake me, much to my chagrin and attempts to feign denial, because I must admit I miss being married, although I do not miss my ex, which is a conundrum, to say the least.
To remember my marriage fondly is to admit that such a thing is actually possible. And although I have tried and tried to squeeze myself into the compact space I think of as forgiveness, I still harbor so many resentments I feel sure they could never fit through the door. Although they have taken on a slightly vapid and hazier form then they once did, I can still feel their claws digging in and holding fast, stubborn to the last and quite intractable.
Sometimes I take forgiveness out for a test drive; see how it holds the road, try it on for size. But I have yet to get more than two or three blocks before we sputter and stall out, forcing me to turn around and head for home, with the promise that I can always take this trip another day.
What I have come to realize, and what I dearly hate to admit, is that I am too tender for forgiveness, even after all this time, because deep down I still feel bruised and misaligned. And although I tell myself that it takes time, it just takes time, I get impatient for the endgame, when I’ll be strong enough to move on. There is no timetable to refer to when recovering from a broken life but more often than not, I find myself thinking there should be. That I should just forgive him and let the anger move on up, over and out. But for now it just seems easier to accept the fact that forgiveness and I are settled in for a long winter’s nap, in a half empty bed, by ourselves.