“You can’t take on everyone’s confusion and wear it. Don’t ask so many questions. The answers may surprise you in a bad way,” Sylvia’s grandfather barked down at her, as he held her hand on a walk home from school when she was six years old.
“They may indeed,” She whispered softly to herself, at age 43.
On this New Jersey cool early-autumn day, she remembered that childhood moment while seated, like a cat ready to pounce, on the edge of the bed in her bra and panties, with a tan- colored bed sheet loosely tangled around her. The sound of water assured that her husband
Aaron was still in the shower. Finally, a moment to spy at the call history in his phone. To look was to question. She wished she had not looked and didn’t know he was, once again, calling “that woman” almost every day. Sylvia ached so bad that her hands trembled and let go of the phone. It slipped down the side of the covers and into the floor.
She didn’t know which part was worst, the bitter taste or the texture of betrayal. This was her second attempt at happily-ever-after. Her first marriage of 4 years had ended over, (you guessed it) infidelity.
Does anyone marry and not cheat? After all of the talks and promises. She once hoped their couple’s therapy had worked wonders and ended his tryst. But, knew what this information meant for their 14-year union.
Gripped by fear at the idea of another divorce, her heart pounded as she suddenly jumped up, raced to put on her oversized sweater, sneakers, and blue jeans. She wanted to run, stomp, kick, and scream. but for now, would settle for a run. A chance to pull herself together, flee the anguish momentarily and dash through nature; old trees, life that had planted itself, pushed down
deep roots and was happy in their spot.
Many times, she had leisurely strolled this path. This time, along with the quick pounding sound of her steps, Sylvia noticed the sharp movement of birds from one spot to another, dust and seeds that sailed in need of a new place to take hold, they were like her. Everything in her felt jittery and uprooted. The “knowing” was already doing a number on her chronic twitch in her cheek.
The Broken-hearted-first-things-first. Sob hard where no one can listen. Everything else; the confrontation, the heated arguments, the packing, uncertainty, loneliness, the expressed concern from relatives, the lawyers, the reshuffle of who-gets-to-keep-who of their longtime friends, hurtful division of assets, the giving-back-of-each-other’s-family members, rumors of what happened, and the long road to healing, would begin later. Just for now, she ran as hard as she could and let a rivers-flow-of-tears dry from open wind.
© 2024 Beverly M. Collins
Bio: Beverly M. Collins, author of the books, Quiet Observations: Diary thought, Whimsy and Rhyme, and Mud in Magic. Her poems and short stories have appeared in publications based in USA, England, Ireland, Australia, India, Berlin, Mauritius, and Canada both in print and online.
Winner of a Naji Naaman Literary Prize in Creativity (Lebanon). Collins, three times nominated for the Pushcart Prize, and a prize winner for the California State Poetry Society; One of three winners of the June 2021 Wilda Morris Poetry Challenge (Chicago). Her photography can be found on the cover of Peeking Cat 40 (UK), California Quarterly, on Fine Art America products, iStock/Getty images, and more at beverlym-collins.pixels.com.
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