Reflections in dreams
My dreams took me back last night; to a place I haven’t been in over a decade; a place I never imagined my self being, and never want to be again.
Ten years devoted.
Ten years spent.
Irretrievable.
Broken.
Gone forever.
I entered through the familiar front door; the scent that was us overwhelmed and stopped me in my tracks. My eyes adjusted then focused in the dark, as familiar images and shapes appeared before me. I slowly walked from room to room; each containing different objects from various stages of our time together.
Our first living room, with hand-me-down sofa and chair; knick-knacks and pictures, arranged just as they had been. Even the flowers I’d picked from the field; beginning to dry, yet colorful in the blue glass vase.
I walked down the hall and another room appeared; another chapter displayed for my viewing. More of his things mingled with mine; his presence now obvious and prominent. The same wildflowers, faded now, but still beautiful through my eyes; the blue glass vase, a crack now in its side, simply added character, I remember thinking.
There was an entryway that led to a carport; our Tibetan Mastiffs, Marge & Homer, who I secretly called Rhett & Scarlett, obediently on their cushion in the corner. Both in dire need of baths and a nutritious meal; something other than what happened to be on sale. Scarlett looked up at me with those pitiful, sad eyes; as if to ask me why; the single word and loaded question that plagued me at the time; plagued us all. Rhett refusing to acknowledge me; having long since given up on me; that day I lay on the bathroom floor; Scarlett faithfully curled by my side, offering unconditional love and support; while Rhett stood looking from the door, his gaze as if to say, “who’s the coward now?”
There were boxes stacked to the ceiling in the far corner of the carport; waiting to be stored in the attic; something he always promised he was going to get to, but never did. For the simple fact that they contained my things; things I took with me wherever we happened to land; things that were sentimental, things he felt threatened by. And so they sat in that corner, exposed to the elements, until they finally began rotting away.
I remember the day I drug them to the curb on garbage day; one by one. I didn’t even have the heart to go through them; to be reminded of what they contained; to see what treasured possessions had been ruined and lost to me forever. Better to not remember, I told my self.
I walked back inside; looked to my left, then to my right; trying to decide which way to go; how to get out. There was no easy way; not then, not even in my dreams. There was, however, a light at the end of a long, dark hall; which I instinctively moved toward. As I progressed, I passed many more rooms. Some of which I stopped, stood in the doorway of, and gazed at with fond reminiscence; others I rushed past, with nothing more than a glance given. And that one in particular that I would have expected to run right past, I actually stepped into.
I stood just inside the doorway, the light at the end of the hall beckoning, as the scene before me ripped my heart apart; piece by broken piece. Framed works of art that once I had been so proud, hung in precarious positions throughout the room; not out of eclecticism, but sheer necessity; covering holes that had been punched, kicked or gouged in the walls. Markers of his anger, reminders of his horrible temper; hidden in plain sight.
Neon beer signs and alien figurines still made me cringe, and not a single book in sight, for that was nothing but a ridiculous waste of time. The stench of the homemade bong on the table in the corner; my good lemonade pitcher with a bottomless 2-liter bottle stuck inside; brown water and thick repugnant ganja residue covering the sides. The sound he made as he inhaled two full liters of smoke into his lungs, and the desperation in his eyes when he was forced to scrape the sides. The bong disappearing, new paraphernalia taking it’s place; diverting my gaze before the crack pipe and gun materialized.
I looked away, and there on the floor, in the corner by the loveseat, was my favorite Tommy Bahama bag. I walked over and picked it up, slowly unzipped it and looked inside. A half smoked pack of Marlboro Lights, a black and white composition book that I used for a journal back then; half the pages ripped out and the remaining filled with written lies to appease his insecure ego and get him the fuck off my back; little doodles on the pages, where he had left his mark, his way of letting me know he had been there, read my words and that nothing of mine would ever be sacred.
I removed the sparkly silver Lancome make-up bag my mother had sent me, pulled out the compact and opened the secret compartment in the bottom; and there it was, the light at the end of the tunnel; shining brightly in my hand, just as it always had done. I carefully removed the small, aged piece of paper and unfolded it, to reveal the message inside that had kept me sane, given me courage and one day eventually saved my life, quite literally.
“I’ll Love You Forever…”
I carefully refolded the note, but instead of putting it back where I’d found it, I slipped it in my pocket; thinking to myself, that he really does and undoubtedly will…love me forever. Just then I felt his arm slip comfortably around my waist. I turned to look and there he was; my beautiful husband, standing by my side, where he’d been all along, right from the start. I looked deep, into his smiling eyes; filled with happiness and love that would never be disguised.
We were silent for several minutes, as we stood in the doorway and gazed about the room. Remembering those tumultuous years when we’d only just met, the insanity I was living through and his desire to help. I spotted the small pottery bowl I’d made when I was a little girl; musing that it had actually survived. It’s pink, purple and blue hues faded with time. I walked over and retrieved it from its spot of safety, and inside lay the broken shards of my blue glass vase; that I didn’t have the heart to throw away, that was still beautiful, even in pieces, through my eyes.
I handed it to him, but the only thing he saw when he looked inside, were remnants of a broken heart, a shattered soul; in desperate need of healing, and he the one to do the mending; still beautiful, even when broken, through his eyes.
when I woke from the dream I found him curled at my back; two spoons in a drawer, with his arm around my waist. Offering comfort, with me always. Weathering life’s storms and the changing of the seasons.
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