WITHOUT ADVICE by Laura Weaver

It was two weeks after the funeral. I was moving around in a thick, hazy fog. Still in shock, disbelief and moving my body from Point A to Point B – but never remembering how I got there. I could feel myself sinking, sliding slowly down a very dark, deep lonely pit. Dear God, I have never felt this intensity of despair. I had a huge elephant sitting on my chest and I was suffocating – and yet, I had the most incredible empty space throughout my body.

That emptiness was the space Alan’s energy had occupied for 23 years. We were so meshed and so intertwined that I never realized what part was me and what part was Alan. I visualize this combining of our energy as if Alan’s energy was an invisible octopus that attached to my chest.  Once attached, this octopus pulsated energy throughout every cell of my body. We melded, combined, connected – became as one - my mate, my lover, my confidant, my provider, my protector, my solid. 

And now, that he is dead, it feels that he was ripped from my chest – leaving wounds that would take years to heal. Without his energy in my body, I was so very, very tired.  I couldn’t get my bearings straight.  I could hardly put one foot in front of the other. And yet, with this incredible sadness and fatigue, came a huge amount of nervous energy, driven by fear, not knowing how to move around, to comfort my broken children and to even begin to fill that space in our lives that Alan occupied.

So there I am, exhausted, no energy and then at night, I could not sleep. That underlying nervousness, restlessness, constant processing – I was wiped out!

The boys had an open house at school. Parents would go through their children’s schedule, meet the teachers, and learn about the courses and expectations of the teachers. My friend, Carla and her husband, Lewis called and asked me to ride with them. It was amazing how childlike I was, like a little girl. I was in such a daze. It was like my friends would hold my hand and I just went with them.

So, I sat in a desk in one of Chad’s classes and a woman sat next to me. She handed me a piece of paper. You don’t know me, but my name is Claire Daly and I have two sons, Benjamin and Jonathan. My husband died five years ago. Here’s my number. You call me anytime, day or night. I know how long your nights can be.

Four days later, I am pacing the floor at four in the morning. I had been up all night. I felt like a caged animal – a lioness in a zoo, pacing back and forth looking out the bars of my cage. Trapped, frustrated, losing my mind!

I remembered that lady that gave me the paper with her number on it. At five a.m. I called her. 

“Claire, this is Laura Weaver. I feel like I am losing my mind.”

“Laura, I live a two streets from you. I am coming.”

Twenty five minutes later, Claire is at my kitchen door with a paper gift bag and two cups of coffee. We sat on my patio and out of her bag, she pulled a box of Kleenex, two bottled waters and two books.  

Claire looked at me and asked, “How are you?”

I started talking to her about the pain, the emptiness, the profound sadness, the constant “headtalk,” the thick, thick fog I lived in, my fear of helping and raising my boys alone, the heartbreak over my broken family, my fatigue, and the never ending sleeplessness.

Claire in all of her wisdom of walking this walk before me said, “No, Laura, you are not losing your mind. This is grief, you have been broken. Be gentle with yourself, feel what you feel – this is the beginning of healing.”

COPING WITH THE VOICES by Michael Johnson

As I drove down the Turnpike headed west through the Berkshires, I started to have a conversation with God.

“Ok, I’m listening, why exactly did you want me to go to this Omega place for a writing workshop?”  Silence

It had seemed a good idea at the time I registered. The glitzy catalogue was very attractive and full of opportunities for growth. I like writing and others have said they liked my writing -- if you could call the short pieces about finding, often tripping over God in everyday life, writing. 

And I had hit a loggerhead -- writers block I guess they call it. Mine was more like constipation. You strain and strain and you want something desperately to come out -- after a while you don’t care if it does look like crap -- you just want the relief of having it come out of you.

So there was the constipation and the need to just get away from the pressures of work.

And so I signed up two weeks ago -- it seemed like a good idea at the time.

But winding through the Berkshires, I paid no attention to the beautiful vistas that the road reveals as it cuts through the mountains. 

Sitting here, writing this, I realize that I don’t even know how I got here. The whole trip here my thoughts were elsewhere, as the reality of what I was about to do sunk in. I was going to camp with a bunch of people who probably were real writers -- people who had been doing this for years.  People who had had training in this.

My writing training consisted in a journalism course 35 years ago the only scrap of which I remember is that you need to pack as much into the first paragraph because by the time you get to the fifth you’ve lost 80% of your readers.

As I neared Austerlitz and the exit for the Taconic South, a voice in my head started to speak to me, 

“You could just stay on the road going west and spend the week at Siena College. It’s home, it’s relaxing and Mikey it’s safe.”

“You could call up your classmate Brian right now and get a room. This is a no brainer.”

But apparently my grey Toyota wasn’t listening. She got off at the Taconic exit and headed South. 

But the voice in my head was persistent. “South?  Great!!  You do realize that we are only two and a half hours from the New York City. You can camp out with the brothers at 31st or 96th street, one of them will have room. Man, when was the last time you had 5 days in the city -- so much to do or not do, it’s all up to you.

I thought about it, but didn’t respond to the very attractive alternative.  I kept driving south.  At some point the voice realized that he hadn’t quite closed the deal of derailing the Omega venture. 

So then he brought out the heavy guns. “About this workshop, one question -- Do you really want to embarrass yourself?  Because you know, that’s probably going to be what is going to happen. You know they expect you to read what you write -- it said it right there in the brochure. Do you really want to be perceived as a ‘wanna be’ all week long? Listen to me!  Do the safe thing. Don’t do this!  I tell you -- this is not going to end well.

Despite the voice’s tapping into my deepest fear, I still got off the Taconic onto what I can best describe as a back road. As it wound through farm and field I thought,  “I’m lost! This can’t be right!”  And I caved into the voice and said to myself,  “Well if I don’t find it quickly -- I will just head to the city.”  

And then over the next rise was a sign -- Omega. 

My last chance to escape was now gone.  As I pulled into the parking lot, the voice, apparently realizing the futility of the situation, fell silent.

I parked and went into the welcome center and registered. The people could not have been nicer. “This bodes well.” I tried to convince myself. 

I set my campsite and set out to explore the Institute, which is situated on hundreds of acres. I found a neat little café, bought a decaf and pulled out the brochure they give to the newbie’s.

. 

As I thumbed through it trying to find the map, my eyes fell on the words, Cancelation Policy - “Well, too late for that.”  I sighed, with more resignation than anything else.

But for some reason I kept on reading that section. Maybe it was the lawyer in me subconsciously scouring for something in the fine print that would somehow hold the key to my escape from potential humiliation. 

And then, there it was.  My eyes latched on to a paragraph that said if you are not happy with a workshop you can switch to another one.

With this discovery the voice that had been silent since our arrival literally screamed with excitement,    

“Here it is! Here’s your out. If tomorrow this thing really sucks, if you bomb, if you are totally out of your league, you can just switch to some other program, something safe like permaculture -- you like gardening or listening to your gut. BUT not singing, cuz with your voice that definitely would be embarrassing!!

What the voice said did make a lot of sense. Ok, I decided, that will be my Plan B, that’s my safety net if I fell off the high wire of writing.

Backup plan safely decided on, I began exploring the serpentine pathways that wound up the hill until I came upon a sign that said sanctuary. There was no building in sight, just an arch and a set of stone steps that snaked into the darkness. I thought about turning back, thinking that this was a journey better made in the light of day, but something nudged me on. Flashlight in hand, I carefully climbed the twisting, uneven rock stairway. Carefully, slowly, I made my way to the top where there were some soft lights illuminating the entrance. 

As I entered the dark, cool wooden building, I could barely make out among the shadows where the chairs were. I was looking for a chair. I wasn’t ready to sit on one of those cushion things, too early in the week for that.

As I settled into a chair and relaxed, my eyes became accustomed to the darkness, and I came to the realization that I was not alone. There were other people seated throughout the sanctuary. 

What they were doing there, I had no clue. Maybe emptying themselves. Maybe filling themselves. Maybe both.

Somehow comforted by the fact that I was not alone, I relaxed and my thoughts turned to the God who had brought me here.

I thought, “OK God, I’m still waiting for my answer.  Why am I here?”

Silence.

After a while my butt went numb and I decided that it was time to go. I headed down the hill, armed again with the trusted flashlight. I was even more careful than on my ascent, as I didn’t want to trip and “go ass over teakettle” as my grandmother would say. Even though God had not told me why I was here, I was pretty sure it wasn’t to get a broken neck!

And then, as I came around a turn, my flashlight shone on a curved wall below. Looking down on the top of the wall I saw written in small, smooth stones one word: Divine.

In that one word I was reminded of who God is and who I am -- at my best and not filled with self-doubt.

In that one word was the answer to the question of why I was here.

I was here to have an experience of God’s divine unconditional love --

a love that accepts and doesn’t judge, 

a love that holds and treasures what is broken in our lives, 

a love that takes the brokenness shared and then does something truly amazing with it.

I was here to be bathed in that love and to be reminded that ultimately Divine love is all that I need to face the challenges of this life 

and to cope with the voices in my head. 

God had finally spoken. 

THEFT by Susan Macri

I wore my special quiana knit blouse, with purple grapes and luscious leaves, and the waiters at Manero’s Steak House came visit to me in the little coat check where I worked weekends to tell me how special I looked, how pretty in it.  Their compliments were especially florid when the other fat-gutted middle-aged waiters were around: men from Greece, old Italians, young Yugoslavs (my favorite guy had black long hair and green eyes) with tight high asses and spectacular shoulders.  Why?  One old, paunchy man advised me urgently to steal from the coat check till.  Everyone did it, why shouldn’t I make some extra money too?  I was underpaid.  Well, I was being paid for the first time, and it seemed pretty good to me.  Should I take the money?  I took $20, felt terrible, put it back the next night.

The night I returned the 20 to the till, I decided I didn’t like these guys, this job, this cubby hole. These big steaks hanging in the refrigerated display case, the floor strewn with sawdust.  Maybe I could speak to my mom about quitting this job, find another --- but being the only girl in a joint full of men was intoxicating.  What would I learn?  Everything here was mysterious, the smoke, the dim red lighting, the way the waiters were protective and solicitous or slavering by turns.

What was I to do?  The night I returned the 20 was a Saturday in October, a good dark smell in the leaves as I walked to the job through my suburban development, across route 25A, quick-quick to thread the traffic to cross the intersection.  I put the 20 in the jar and breathed out, felt my feet on the ground, steady.  I know who I am.

Mike has thick red hair cut to the shoulders, a tickly looking moustache, handsome bronzed skin and bright aquamarine eyes. My feet hurt, but I like looking at him.  The night is long and boring except when the men come around to talk about man stuff or complement me on how cute I look.  Mike never does that stuff.  He’s really old, 27, married.  He joins the group where the conversation takes a turn to my curves, tiny waist, pretty lips.  I blush, but I want to know more about how they think.  Mike says, in front of them all, “Let me give you a ride home.  It’s late.”  I take him up on it.  I can’t remember his ride, but it was a two-seater, not a car that a family man might have.  It was sporty and fast.  He takes me the three quarters of a mile home to Alexander Drive and he stops the car at the corner, but not in the driveway of my house.  I can’t understand it, but I think it’s sexy to get to talk to him for a few minutes.  There is light from somewhere.  He looks at me and smiles.  What does he say?  I don’t remember.  Mike unzips his trousers and pulls out a large. Pink. Hard. Cock.  It’s very big, and maybe only the third one I have seen.  I have spied on my brothers and dad when I was so little I could crouch behind the trash basket and not be seen.  So I know.  My dad saw me and gently put me out of the room saying, “Ohhh, nooo,” very softly.  But I remember how he looked, and the difference between his sex and that of my little brothers.

Mike takes my face in his hands and remarks again on my lips.  He is very beautiful, I can’t breathe, and I don’t know if I should be scared, don’t know what he wants me to do.  But I am scared, I can’t breathe, I can’t be the object of this attention.  I know this is as wrong as anything my mother has ever warned me about -- is wrong as she says all sex is wrong for me, anyway.  What I hear in her room at night, or used to when I was a child, I can’t understand.  The cooing of doves, and the softness of shifting fabric.  Something good is in there, I always thought, and I would like to see what it is.

Mike pushes my head down — I can’t remember anything more.  I don’t think I stayed there very long, but I had the distinct feeling even then that this gesture would get back to the men, define something for Mike and for them, change everything about me to myself.

I can’t remember how I got into the house.  But there was a light, and my mother standing behind the door waiting for me.  Furious, seething, a viper.  Why mom, if Mike was hurting me, didn’t you come out swinging?  Why didn’t you protect me, if it was so dangerous a thing?  I can’t ask these questions, I can’t think them for 20 years or more.  I don’t remember getting into bed.  But just as Mom had slapped me when I first got my period, and barged into my room when I was masturbating as a young girl in that sexy household — why wasn’t there a lock on my door, some privacy, something?  But I know I am bad, and I think I may have to get used to it.  I may have to learn to like it.

I hate her guts. 

That spring I fall in love with a girl, Ilana, hair to her waist, breasts like rising bread, lovely.  She holds me, holds me, and asks me if I am afraid.  I am afraid.  I ask mom if I can go to a therapist.

“No daughter of mine is a lesbian, and no daughter of mine needs a shrink,” she tells me.  I work that over.  I go into her sanctuary, her bedroom where I am not allowed to be.  To her precious jewelry box, to her lovely Elizabeth Arden red lipstick case.  And I write a suicide note on her vanity mirror.

A MEMORY I LOVE TO KEEP by Harold Burnett

As a family we played lots of games.  I won’t say competition was vicious, but it could become heated.  For some reason my parents enjoyed a very noisy game called “Pit.”  

The game is based on commodity sales at the Stock Exchange . . . free market capitalism at its best.  Each player is dealt a number of cards with the names and pictures of vegetables on them.  The object of the game is to “corner” a market in one commodity of vegetable by exchanging cards in a noisy screaming match that starts as soon as the dealer finishes dealing and declares, “The Pit Is Open!”

One is allowed to yell out numbers from 1 to 5 indicating the number of cards one is willing to trade.  If two people yell the same number, 3 for example, they would make an exchange of cards.  As son as one has five of the same “commodity” he/she yells, “Corner on ‘______, corn!’” for example.  That round is over and the cards are dealt again and a new pit is opened.  Raucous yelling of numbers fills the air again until a new corner is won.  

My mother, trained in classical voice, would always roll her R’s when yelling “thrrrrrree, thrrrree, thrrree.”  She liked that better than winning.  My father, a Baptist minister, liked to entone or chant all his bids in a deep bass, “ooonnnee, oonnnee, oonnnee.”  All of us kids would scream our numbers at the top of our lungs.  Even the three cocker spaniels loved the noise and excitement of the bidding and would bark and whine and sometimes piddle on the kitchen floor.

We played the game while on vacation in a remote hunting cabin deep in the north woods of New Hampshire.  We had running water but no bathroom.  A two-hole privy about 50 feet behind the house served our needs.  To use the privy at night, we took a flashlight and ventured out back there always aware that a skunk, or a porcupine or even a bear might be sniffing around the neighborhood.  

One night, in the middle of a particularly raucous game of Pit, my little sister, Barbie, age six, needed to use the privy.  The game was going at such a fever pitch that no one wanted to break away to take her.  She really had to go so she took the flashlight and headed out into the dark night.  

Porcupines like to gnaw on wood that human sweat has left tasting salty.  The privy attracted them for a midnight snack.  When Barbie gingerly opened the wooden door, she startled a porcupine gnawing on one of the seats.  The animal jumped toward the open door.  Barbie screamed and threw the flashlight up in the air.  The porcupine had scooted toward the woods, but the flashlight landed right in its path and caused the animal to do an abrupt about face.  Barbie had started to run back toward the cabin screaming wildly because the porcupine was right at her heels trying to escape the flashlight.

My brother had just cornered barley when we heard her screams and we all rushed out onto the porch in time to see her rounding the corner of the cabin neck and neck with a surprisingly agile porcupine.  Barbie leaped up onto the porch.  The porcupine scooted under the porch and everything ended happily.  What a laugh!

My father died of cancer in 1993 unable to speak in his final days.  My mother had a stroke three years later and spent a frustrating ten years trying to form words and express her thoughts.

HOME by Linda Bomse

My car seemed to have a mind of its own as I left New York after spending a gorgeous morning just wandering around.

I’d left very early that Sunday and had arrived at 34^th and 3^rd where I knew I could sit outside and have breakfast at Cinema. My puppy Major would sit next to me as he had when Jerry was with me last year: watching the vendors set up booths for the street fair, straining to get at the larger dogs who passed, totally disinterested in this black and white bundle of energy.

The waitress: “Hi! I am Veronica. I will be your server today,” knelt to pet Major, left with my coffee order and emerged with coffee for me and water for the puppy. She took my order: scrambled egg whites very well done and scones with strawberry preserves and clotted cream. Against my son’s advice, I had totally spoiled Major and today would be no exception. I broke off little pieces of the omelet and slipped them to him as he sat beside me under the table.

I have always loved Sunday mornings in New York as the streets slowly awakened welcoming joggers, couples wheeling strollers, wheelchair bound elderly being taken out for an airing before it grew too hot, the requisite garbage picker carrying a huge black bag which he continued to load with discarded cans excised from the overflowing street corner trash containers.

After breakfast, I walked the street fair – starting as Jerry and I always had – even before most of the stalls were completely set up. We would wander at our own pace, agreeing to meet at the next corner if we had lost sight of each other. Invariably, he would buy sox: browns, beiges, navies and blacks with subtle patterns. Always the short ones – never the over the calf sox that I preferred because they prevented sock gap when he crossed his legs at work. But, I wasn’t the one who would be wearing them so I learned early in our relationship to butt out of his choices.

Today, no sox would be bought. My God, I thought, I could open my own stall with all the unworn pairs of socks I’d taken from his drawers in February as I prepared for the Big Brothers Big Sisters truck to come for donations. 100’s of sox, 100’s of shirts, dozens of sweaters and fleeces, windbreakers and handkerchiefs. He’d always used handkerchiefs, another item bought and bought again at these fairs.

Today, though, Major was my companion and, although he sniffed many other puppy butts, accepted the attention of well trained children who asked first if they could pet the puppy, as he had every time we had brought him with us, although the weather was perfect, although my favorite pocketbook vendor and the guy with the Fabulous Imposter jewelry were there, my wallet remained closed.

By noon, I was back in my car headed home. The car drove itself as Major fell asleep safely attached to a rear seat belt and I nibbled a leftover scone I’d saved from breakfast.

I daydreamed and turned off the Expressway at 135 North, known locally as the S.O.B. Turned right onto Jericho Turnpike toward Woodbury and left at the third light. At the end of the road, having passed the high school and the soccer field, I took a left and a quick right onto Cherry Lane, began up the hill and pulled over, suddenly aware that I had made a mistake.

I didn’t live here anymore.

There were no meandering paths to weed - no fish to feed – no Jerry.

I left to go to my new house in the town I’d moved to a couple of months before: a house I really liked.

But, not yet my home.

ROSEMARY by Liam Watt

Sometimes when I look in a  mirror I see about twenty different expressions all trying to fit on my face at the same time. I'm thinking now of Rosemary Wiseman, my first true love. She was in my 8^th grade science class, where I got the highest grades I ever got in school. She was petite, smart, blonde, and cute with a precocious body for 13 or 14. She was from Canada, which you could only tell when she said words with O-U, like “out.” She'd say “ewt.” When Mr. McMannis, the best teacher I ever had, asked, “Where does digestion begin?” Rosemary raised her hand and confidently said, “In the mewth.” “Where?” he asked. “In the mewth,” she repeated emphatically. He looked puzzled. “What …?” “In your MOWWWTH,” she loudly exaggerated, causing an uproar of laughter, as that phrase was a popular obscene insult in those days.

We started going steady early in the school year. The only ring I had to give her was my mother's high school ring which Ma had given me, with a deep red garnet and 1927 engraved large on the side. Rosemary wore it on a gold chain constantly throughout the year. We were thought of as the perfect couple, like the Ken and Barbie of the arty clique of the collegiate crowd. 

Even though we lived about 10 miles apart we'd ride our bikes to each other's houses after school. Her dad was an airline pilot and they lived in a new upscale development, not far from the water near Cold Spring Harbor. We used to walk through the woods near her house and cross the LIRR tracks to a hidden field with tall grass, lots of huckleberry bushes and small cedars. We'd put down a blanket and sit or lay back and talk, or read poetry, until I felt the courage to start making out and petting. I sensed Rosemary wanted to do more, to really explore sexually, but I was shy and inhibited. Back then, that's all I could say about the nagging tension and aching frustration swelling and coursing through my body. I was pretty serious and philosophical for an 8^th grader. She was bright and light-hearted compared to me. We both liked Buddy Holly and loved to dance together. She painted  watercolors and I made masks and puppets and liked taking pictures. I didn't consider that art, not like what she or my friend Alan did, who could sketch a likeness of anything in a minute. I thought photography was cheating, that the camera made the image, not the photographer.

When a train passed by our field, slowing down for the Cold Spring Harbor station just ahead, sometimes, when the engineer saw us lying in our secret field, he'd give a quick  pull on his air horn,

as if to tip his hat to our youthful, carefree pleasure. One spring day we got caught in a downpour and as we walked back along the tracks to the path through the woods to her house, we both got thoroughly drenched. Her soaked blouse and bra became completely transparent, as if she were naked, her beautiful breasts and nipples pushing themselves right up at me. She stopped, looked directly in my eyes, silently begging to be held and fondled. I only remember the awkward, fearful, hollow, incompleteness of my response. 

When the school year was finished, Rosemary had a surprise summer party. It was to be her going away party. Her Dad had gotten stationed in Florida and they were moving immediately. She was a popular girl and there were a lot of kids at the party. At one point I saw Rosemary, not just kissing, but really making out with Peter Vaughn, a red headed jock, friend, classmate of ours, and neighbor of hers. My world was toppled by the news of her leaving on short notice, and now shattered by seeing her with Peter. “I'll never see him again,” she explained, “and he's always wanted to kiss me.” I don't know how I kept myself together, stuffing feelings that were so overwhelming that if I allowed myself to fully embrace them, I think I'd have gone insane. I wondered, since they were close neighbors, how much of this had gone on unseen. I can't remember when she gave me back my ring. 

The Saturday she left, Rosemary and her father and mother drove to my house on their way out of town so she could say goodbye. Her parents waited in the driveway as Rosemary came to kiss me goodbye and give me her new address in Florida. “I'll write everyday,” she affirmed. “Me too,” I  replied, helplessly. When they drove away, my dad came and stood next to me as I melted into tears. He looked at me, seemed embarassed for me, under the sway of such emotion. He tried to minimize my pain, saying, “Aww – don't fret... there'll be another.” There was no other that summer, writing to Rosemary was all I could think of. And in the new school year, there was no other. Some of the girls expressed their sympathy for me without Rosemary. I was obviously like the short half of a broken wishbone, for awhile anyway, until we all got used to me being just me. Through the whole of 9^th grade, I didn't have girlfriend. Sometime that year, I lost my mother's graduation ring. And long into my adult years, whenever I took the train to or from New York, I'd always look for our field near Cold Spring Harbor, the field that held the secrets of those treasured bitter-sweet memories of first love.

NO GOING BACK by Sheri Ponzi

Harry sat there in the back bedroom of their house in Luverne, Alabama. The one they had moved to the day after he had retired as a machinist in Tonawanda, New York. The one my grandmother had reluctantly followed him to despite it meaning leaving her grandchildren behind – what else could she do?? I vividly remember him counting down his last days at work, and then loading up their pickup truck and heading out to Alabama the very next morning. Almost 20 years later, his main occupation now was playing the role of scary pirate to my 3-year-old niece, Kennedy.

Harry wore an eye patch and weighed about 100 pounds at that point. He had cut off the end of his belt and poked new holes in it so his pants would stay up. His glass eye sat on the dresser alongside photos of me and my sister and our cousins, the 1976 bicentennial horse decanter they had had for what seemed like my entire life, an assortment of glass bowls and knicknacks, and the glass of YooHoo he was sort of drinking. My sister and I had gone to the Piggly Wiggly to get him the YooHoo after he lit up at the mention of it. He had trouble eating or drinking anything these days and we were sure a YooHoo would make it past those lips.

This wasn't one of  the old days of YooHoo and swimming at Point A though. This wasn't a summer vacation far away from my parents. It wasn't 115 degrees. And we weren't going to drive 2.5 hours to Destin for lunch and water slides. It was November 2007.

This was the day when the hospice nurse was visiting and making preparations to bring in a hospital bed for his final days. This was my mom's 57^th birthday. This was the day after my grandmother's 80^th birthday.  This was bittersweet reunions with Harry's siblings – and hearing 3-year-old Kennedy squeal when they arrived, “They're here! Boy are they gonna be happy to see me!!!” – and she was right.

This was the day I was heading back to Kingston to begin my new life as Harry's was ending. This was me staring at the face of pancreatic cancer – knowing I was losing the man who had always, always been there with a kind word. Losing the man who was the only one who told me he trusted me and KNEW I had done the right thing by leaving my husband. The man who always told me I was doing the right thing. Always.

As I hugged him goodbye he whispered into my ear, ”You sure done a great job with those boys. I'm sure proud of you. Y'all keep talking to each other and you'll be okay. You just gotta keep on communicating.” I then began to tell him how grateful I was for everything, the music lessons, the way he had always supported me – he cut me off abruptly and told me, "Get out of here." The suddenness took me by surprise, but when I looked up I saw he was crying. Neither of us had anticipated how difficult it would be to say goodbye.

Later this week my new Michael was moving in. We'd been away from each other for 2 weeks and it felt like forever. I never wanted to stay in a place so much while also feeling desperate to dash away at the first possible opportunity.