It shouldn't. It really shouldn't. Maybe if I
keep telling myself, I’ll eventually believe it. If there was a time when he
was mine, that was fifteen years ago, and I could probably argue that he never
was. It would be so much easier to do this if I didn't have a living, breathing
fourteen-year-old reminder with his eyes. Deep down, I’m happy that he's found someone and I know
that his deliriously giddy behaviour is perfectly normal for that fresh-in-love
stage of a relationship. Lord knows, he's had his share of the crazy girls and
the psycho bitches. At forty-two, he deserves some happiness. I know it can't
be with me. I've got a happiness of my own that grew out of the ashes of him
and me. But it doesn't mean that I haven't harboured a secret hope that all
these years he looked back with regret at what we might have had if we had both
had a little more courage.
I've only had a few relationships in my life that
have had profound and lasting effects, although my feelings have been engaged
more often than that. The ruin of the first one taught me the importance of
compassion. The second taught me that sometimes it is necessary to cut ties
when they become destructive. It was a long time before the third one, he whose
happiness I am now mourning. From that ending I learned the importance of
courage over comfort. There were so many missed opportunities that I saw but talked
myself out of using. Now I am learning the importance of dedication and
devotion -- and yes, I know that sounds like the chorus of "Walk of
Life" by Dire Straits -- and finding myself awed and humbled that
someone thinks me worthy. Let me tell you, unconditional love, wherever you
find it, is an amazing, awe-inspiring, humbling gift.
It shouldn't hurt, not any more. It really
shouldn't hurt like it ended all over again. Maybe if I keep telling myself, I’ll
eventually believe it.
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