That huge longing

That huge longing, you speak of, is my life. It started as a tiny ache when I placed my heart in his hands and said, " Here, take it." Failing to mention that it needed care, more like an orchid than a muscle. Failed to mention that without the proper care it would begin to droop. He was reckless and selfish and forgot about my heart, until he was in danger of losing his own. But by then it was too late. The tiny ache was replaced by a small blank square of muslin waiting for possibility.

I am still his wife. Still a wife. Still. Mainly still. In the past three years, my life has dwindled. Reduced to nothingness. My body is waning. And it is not only physical, of course. I used to think that my life was a series of poems strung together. But the poems are now Memento Mori. And they are not mine. Where are my poems? How can I find them? It's not in a conversation about the Euro that I will find them. Angela Merkel holds no dreams for me. Oil spills have more poetry. There are patterns and textures. They hold water and oil, never meant to mix. It reminds me of my marriage. I can only lament, not harangue. It is tragic in both cases.  And yet. And yet. Instead of falling into self-loathing, instead of falling, I stand up. I stand up straight and look around me. I see a middle-aged woman who feels like a neophyte in life. Feeling the need to start over. I don't know myself. I know myself too well. I despise myself for my failures. I love myself for my failures. I am not good enough. I am not good. I am not enough. I am not.  All has turned into, "I am." Dwelling in possibilities with a hope to have something to hold on to. Like that pole in the subway I used to ride. I am holding on for the life I am headed to. I am.

Svetlana

Svetlana is gone now. The man of steel will linger on forever. She cried out and told us how he broke her life. Her life. A broken mess. Running from place to place. From man to man. My old Russian aunts kept his photo on their wall. Their hero. Her demise.  With hands so small, she couldn't hold her own life in them.  Stuck as a little girl without a mother, when a bullet separated them.  Her father simply erased  it from her personal history. Leaving her to make her own way, knowing that she could not. Never able to recover. Not knowing where she belonged.  Stained for as long as she lived.

This is what comes from reading the obituaries every day. I do it because I am searching for a life and hope to find it in someone deceased.  Looking for the answer in the arc of someone else's life. I am hoping for  a non-linear story, of course, because if a pattern develops, then it's out of the question. I am looking for something along the lines of plumber becomes celebrated painter. Or, she published her first novel at 87.

Svetlana could have taken the broken pieces and made herself stronger. But the determinist I know would say that it was impossible. It was simply her fate. I refuse though. I see my broken places and work on repairing them. The wounds are deep, but the world is vast. I cast a net to find a way out.
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