Tag Archives: heartbreak

Three Men and a Wedding

2 Nov

Three handsome men with me on the dance floor: My son, in his tiny collared shirt and necktie. My partner, D, slightly intoxicated, ignoring the watchful eye of parents, grandparents, uncles and aunts who’d just met him for the first time, and Y, whom I introduce to people as my brother,  though there is no blood connection between us.

My sister got married last night. White gown, hair and makeup, 300 guests, candles and  fancy tablecloths and everything. She was gorgeous, the groom was handsome. The ceremony was lovely. The food was delicious. My son, walking before her in his fancy little outfit, and a basket of rose petals, it was all perfectly out-of-a-magazine, predictably beautiful. I was happy to be there with her. Happy that she was happy.

I can’t get emotional over weddings anymore. I just can’t. Even if it is my own sister. Something in me stopped believing long ago that this thing we do, this expensive social obligation – that it means anything more than what it is to me, a costly party. I know I had one. I know I wanted one. So there’s no judgement here. It’s hard to not want something you’ve been told you wanted throughout your entire life.

We’re structured so that we are always thinking about our next step. After all, life is the journey from one climatic event to the other, with a bunch of boring shit in between. I think my sister and her husband have a good shot at “making it”. They’re a good couple. They’re going to have children, they’ll be a family. My best wish for them is to have what I didn’t. I know it’s what they want. She’ll get pregnant, she’ll have a husband who won’t leave her side, who frets about how she’s feeling and meets her every craving. She’ll have a healthy baby in a painful messy birth, she’ll become blind to the world and only see her baby’s needs and have her marriage take a blow. But her marriage will be strong enough to make it, she and her husband will bounce back and remember one another. They’ll have sex at least once a week. They’ll raise well behaved children that can be left with their grandparents so they can take some time off. The kids will grow older, they’ll grow closer again.

I wish for my sister all of that. I wish for her to trust her man, I wish for her to not be let down, to not be disappointed, to not have her heart shattered and her trust in men broken.

But, if somewhere down the road her heart is broken – then I wish for her exactly what I have. An amazing son, the best friends you could wish for, and, well, love – in all its forms.

We were dancing last night, my son and I, with my awesome girlfriends, whom I can always count on to stand (or dance) beside me when I need them. At one point I found myself suddenly surrounded by my three favorite men, my son was really going nuts on the dance floor, jumping and laughing and man, let me tell you, he’s one hell of a dancer for being only three and a half! Then there was Y, goofing off with us, making my boy laugh, and D, on his day-view, having just met my parents and 300 of their closest acquaintances. The music was loud and not to my taste, but we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves and I thought, how special it is to be surrounded by the three people in my life who’ve helped me restore my faith in men.

So I ended up getting a little emotional after all. I guess, it doesn’t matter what ceremonies you choose to ornament your life with. It’s who’s there beside you at those moments. I felt beautiful last night, with my hair and my makeup, and my awesome dress. I danced, with all my favorite people. But most of all I felt loved last night. And I guess that’s what I really wish for my sister.

Crying Over an Old Photo

16 Aug

I have it in my old email account, the one that I’ve shut down long ago. It dates around February 2013, eighteen months ago. It’s a selfie of us, at the park and it’s the only one I have of him.

SG is sitting behind me, and I am leaning back against him. I can still feel the warmth of his arms wrapped around me. His face is in my hair, and he’s kissing the top of my head. His long auburn curls are a jumble around us, hiding his face, so all you can see is a bit of his forehead and his long lashes over closed eyelids.

And you can see me, looking straight at the camera. I’d taken my glasses off. I’m smiling, the kind of smile that comes from within, the kind you cannot fake, that means that you’re trully content.

I remember that gray sweatshirt, the one with the hood that he wore on laid back days, like that one at the park. I’d gotten off work early and picked him up. We went to that spot I used to go to with friends to talk when I was 19 and my heart was still unbroken. We climbed up the wooden ladder to where the tall slide is. No one was there, so we just sat at the top, and he held me, and we talked for a long time.

Sometimes, out of anger or frustration, I think that what I had with SG wasn’t real. I tell myself he was in it for the sex, or for the adventure of being with an older woman. I tell myself that he didn’t actually love me. But pictures cannot lie.

Looking at this one, now, I know what we had. And I wonder if I will ever have it again.

And then I cry… And listen to this.