Eight Years

 

It’s exactly eight years since my ex husband told me he wanted to sleep with younger men.

It was in the kitchen of the cottage and his mother, who was visiting was crying quietly in the spare bedroom.

In order to tell me the news, he had to be angry and that anger had found its mark with her as well as with me.

I could feel my world crumbling in on itself, but I still tried to people please. 

I made tea, and placated her by telling her it was me that was the problem and not anything she had done.

Immediately I realised that my marriage and relationship was over even though it limped along like a three legged pony for a few more weeks, 

All this was out of the blue. 

Many people don’t believe that, and to be honest there were clues along the way, but it was unfair in its suddenness, and devastating in its effects. 

That’s why I had problems processing it all.

Now eight years on, I can’t really recall his voice. 

For the past three years I have forgotten our wedding anniversary date

I don’t think about something about him every day as I used to

I don’t cry when I remember the hurt

My grief has approached the glitter stage…

I like the analogy of grief as glitter

To begin with it’s everywhere. 

It’s irritatingly lurking in every nook and cranny, like when a child upends a tube of glitter onto a piece of paper decorated with glue

The glitter grief is all consuming and covers everything

But in time, the grief glitter is hoovered away, ok traces of it are maintained on the letters as a constant reminder of our loss, but as the glitter picture sits on the outside of the fridge, wear and tear and life rubs the design bare and clear and dull.

Years later the glitter grief may be just a few sparkles, left in an envelope, or in a corner of a carpeted room, and it serves to gently remind us of things past.

If you are lucky looking at it doesn’t hurt anymore

It’s just glitter, after all