I Romanticize

Something about Sundays has lazy written all over it. Even if you do so much work, it still seems too lazy. I love waking up to Sunday mornings and sitting by the window with my coffee, especially when it's raining. The house is so quiet on Sundays, even when we play an old Sinatra record. I love to hear the tck tck tck  of the raindrops falling into the pool, and the water streaming through the backyard sounding like a waterfall.

Breakfast takes forever on Sundays. He sits on the kitchen table with his New York Times.  We speak briefly only when I announce my displeasure at the half eaten bagel that he has been nibbling for the last few hours. He smiles, and does not improve his pace of eating. I roll my eyes. Unlike other days, I make myself an orange spice coffee as a treat. Something about Sundays begs you to treat yourself with something special, no matter how small. It makes you dream of a day at the spa. Sundays ask for mindless browsing of magazines, baking banana bread just so the house is filled with the cozy aroma of bananas and chocolate, and go berry picking.

Sundays warrant a trip to the farmers' market. I take photos while he tries to shop. Sundays make you crave carnival food like corn-dogs and funnel cakes.

The couch is so inviting on a Sunday afternoon. It calls for marathons of old, long-forgotten T.V. series. Sundays ask for eating on the couch and not doing the dishes afterwards. It invites long baths with chamomile salts and lavender scented candles. Sundays tempt to share some skin under the covers to blues classics and make some moments unforgettable, as the rain continues to fall into the night.

The last time I saw him was in October five years ago. We sat on my favorite bench, but we weren't making any good memories. He was there to tell me what he had decided. He was there to tell me that he chose her over me, and that was it. He didn’t give me a chance to ask any questions or to get any closure. He didn’t give me a chance to cry and yell at him. He just walked right out.

The next time I saw him was five years later at a funeral. Our paths would have never crossed again if it weren't for the death of someone we both knew. Funerals have a way of bringing everyone together. They expect that we put everything else behind us and just get along even if it is for only that day. So I did that. I got along just fine with everyone, including him. I knew he was more devastated than I was from this loss, and I couldn’t help but feel sadder for him than I did for losing a friend. When we looked at each other, I could tell that he was surprised to see me there. Perhaps he didn’t think I would actually come, or perhaps he just didn't think about me at all. But once he saw me, he couldn't stop looking at me. So I walked up to him. We shared a few words about our loss. We tried to console each other, but we couldn’t really. How do you get over someone’s passing? You can’t really. You just learn to live with it.

We are wired to cry and feel sad, and regret many thing we have done when someone we know dies. We cry for someone who is no longer with us, and quite possibly is in a much better place than most of us. We cry when that someone has found their peace, when someone has lived and seen, and is now finally resting. We have a hard time letting that go, but we don’t ever care to shed a tear for the living. We kill something inside each other everyday, and we don’t mourn that loss. There are ways of dieing that don't end in funerals. Hearts break, lives change, even completely destroyed, and we don’t even shrug.

It doesn't matter if he feels sad, or guilty, or even if he apologizes. It's all done now. I died then, and he can't bring me back to life for himself again. I can't unfeel what I have felt.

I suppose he'll just have to come and cry at my funeral too.