Distant Sun

April 14, 2008

It was an evening like every other. We would meet after work, have dinner and then go to “our spot” and talk. “Our spot” was near the local wharf. There was a bench off to the side – near the water. We started going for walks after dinner and, on one of our walks, we followed a footpath and found a semi-secluded spot with a bench. We used to speculate on the uses of the spot – clandestine meetings between lovers, an after-hours place to go and sip a drink. Who really knew?  Whoever used it left it in pristine shape; as if soiling the space would somehow soil the feelings that the space elicited.

Each night, as long as the weather permitted, we would go there and sit. Sometimes we’d just ramble on about nothing. Sometimes we would sit in the comfortable silence of a couple that has known each other a long time. Sometimes we would talk about the more important stuff – the stuff that you couldn’t talk about over dinner in a public place. If I was having a bad day, he would put his arms around me and tell me that whatever was bottled up inside had to come out. Sometimes the words would flow like the water that passed by us and sometimes I would stumble through the sentences. His voice was always reassuring and he was patient. He would tell me to worry less about how I said something – it was more important to just say it. He would slowly coax the words out. Somehow, giving voice to them made them less painful. Sometimes it was therapeutic and sometimes it just picked at the scabs of my emotional wounds.

Tonight was going to be the latter. He had picked up the mail before meeting me. Mixed in with the pile of bills was a letter from my ex sister-in-law with a picture of my ex, his wife, and their new son. I read the letter. She wanted me to know how happy he was and that the divorce had been a blessing. I stared at the picture of my beaming ex and his new family. He finally got the son he wanted. I carefully folded up the letter, placed it and the picture back in the envelope, and put it in my bag. I held my head down and pretended to look in my bag while I regained my composure. I didn’t want to have a meltdown in the restaurant.  Damn him for bringing the mail! It wasn’t his fault. How would he know?

I looked up and managed a weak smile. He slowly slid his hand across the table and took my hand in his. He gently played with my fingers and said something. I have no idea what it was. I muttered that I wanted to go. He nodded and threw some money on the table. I slowly got up and we walked out of the restaurant.

We sat on our bench and listened to the sounds as day started turning to night. I’m not sure how long we sat in silence. He wasn’t going to say the first words. He never really knew how it ended – just that it had. After all, the past was the past. I pulled the letter out of my bag and handed it to him. He read it and glanced at the picture. He swore and then apologized. I’m not sure if the apology was for the swear or for what he read. I looked into his eyes and saw a mix of pain and understanding.

I told him about my ex and how, over the years, our differences became too much to overcome. We lost sight of why we fell in love and got married. Towards the end, we always had the same argument. We could never agree on how our life together should progress and that included having children. We were never in synch on the timing. Both of us never wanted children at the same time – one of us always had an excuse. Yet we continued to stay together. It was as if we felt that, in spite of everything, it was our obligation to stay married.

We came from two different worlds. Somehow, we managed to meet and fall in love. At some point we decided to get married. Some of my friends said that they thought I married him because I thought I could change him. I always responded that I never wanted to change him – he was a breath of fresh air in the stuffy room of my life. Somehow, we found similarities and it was on the common ground that we built our relationship. The common ground wasn’t enough to sustain a marriage.

We finally agreed that arguing was not solving anything. It was exhausting. We kept going over the same things and nothing ever changed. We agreed that we didn’t know each other anymore. We had become strangers in our own home. We didn’t know what we wanted – except we didn’t want this.

He shifted on the bench and then stood up. Perhaps he was getting uncomfortable with what I was sharing. He stood up and extended his hand. I took it and stood up. Time to go. We walked towards the river. While we were walking, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his pack of cigarettes. He pulled out a cigarette and his lighter. One smoke before we head home. He lit the cigarette and then handed me the lighter, along with the letter. I set the flame to the paper and stared at it; mesmerized by the colours. I held on to the paper as long as I could and then dropped it into the river. The past is the past.