The Mad Hatter's Teaparty
Illus. by John Tenniel
Illus. by John Tenniel
On my blog, there's a postage-stamp sized image just below the section labeled About Me. It's the cover of an anthology I'm in, concerning the mysteries of the heart. My piece is about a time in my life marked by a recognition of raw facts, suddenly made crystalline and unavoidable. It was a time when I knew I had to leave my husband, and quickly too. The only mystery of the heart was why I'd stayed so long.
That I would leave was already a fact, settled stone-like in my mind. I'd dispensed with tormenting myself over my marriage's failure, my husband's opacity, and our inability to talk. Whether I'd tried hard enough, been unkind, had loved or not loved, none of it mattered. In truth, I was probably walking out on a big damned mess, much of it of my own making, but I didn't care. I'd absorbed one great lesson from David: I could just go.
I don't remember talking to David about leaving or divorcing, although perhaps I did. He wasn't uncomfortable with conversations like that, and later, more than once, I'd soak down his shirt, weeping idiotically over one boyfriend or another. But during my separation and subsequent divorce, I was suddenly too deep in real-life dilemmas to philosophize about whatever emotions I had or didn't have.
I had never lived alone, I had never managed my own money, I had never paid a bill, had never had a checking account, and my list of nevers seemed to run on without end. I was stuck in a small square brick house on a deer lease, several miles from Iowa City and away from anyone I knew. And, as we divied up our belongings, my-then husband and I, what I mostly thought about was the stuff we'd accrued. I wondered what I'd do with my half of the stuff, how I'd get the stuff to wherever I was going, and whether I'd have room to store my stuff.
In my memory, I can see myself sitting on the living room floor, piling stuff into a collection of liquor boxes I'd scrounged. Surely there were days between that night and the morning I recall most clearly, but there's only a blank spot. What I know next is that it was suddenly Saturday morning, the sun was shining, and David showed up with a truck, looking cheerful. In a matter of minutes, he had me packed up, settled into the truck cab, and we drove away. Much later, I wrote of that moment, And I left my husband forever, and that's true too.
Had he not shown up, I imagine I would have gotten through the hassle of moving somehow. But I don't think the day would have bloomed so brightly.
As he often did, David made the day worth celebrating.
As it surely was.
That I would leave was already a fact, settled stone-like in my mind. I'd dispensed with tormenting myself over my marriage's failure, my husband's opacity, and our inability to talk. Whether I'd tried hard enough, been unkind, had loved or not loved, none of it mattered. In truth, I was probably walking out on a big damned mess, much of it of my own making, but I didn't care. I'd absorbed one great lesson from David: I could just go.
I don't remember talking to David about leaving or divorcing, although perhaps I did. He wasn't uncomfortable with conversations like that, and later, more than once, I'd soak down his shirt, weeping idiotically over one boyfriend or another. But during my separation and subsequent divorce, I was suddenly too deep in real-life dilemmas to philosophize about whatever emotions I had or didn't have.
I had never lived alone, I had never managed my own money, I had never paid a bill, had never had a checking account, and my list of nevers seemed to run on without end. I was stuck in a small square brick house on a deer lease, several miles from Iowa City and away from anyone I knew. And, as we divied up our belongings, my-then husband and I, what I mostly thought about was the stuff we'd accrued. I wondered what I'd do with my half of the stuff, how I'd get the stuff to wherever I was going, and whether I'd have room to store my stuff.
In my memory, I can see myself sitting on the living room floor, piling stuff into a collection of liquor boxes I'd scrounged. Surely there were days between that night and the morning I recall most clearly, but there's only a blank spot. What I know next is that it was suddenly Saturday morning, the sun was shining, and David showed up with a truck, looking cheerful. In a matter of minutes, he had me packed up, settled into the truck cab, and we drove away. Much later, I wrote of that moment, And I left my husband forever, and that's true too.
Had he not shown up, I imagine I would have gotten through the hassle of moving somehow. But I don't think the day would have bloomed so brightly.
As he often did, David made the day worth celebrating.
As it surely was.
1 comment:
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
These are such wonderful portraits of David. It's been an enriching experience to come to know David as a younger man through comments on the facebook page and now through your writings,just as it seems it has been fulfilling for you to get a sense of the older David and the ways in which he settled into himself while remaining the same bright, acute spirit.
You are a wonderful writer. Thank you for turning your light on my old friend.
-Peter Thompson
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