Sometimes, I can’t believe I’m single. That it’s over. That I made it out alive and sort of internally okay. That I don’t have to keep trying. That I don’t have to feel bad. That I don’t have to be sad. That I don’t have to cry. That I don’t have to be the tragic lonely figure at the Christmas/Thanksgiving/Fill-in-the-Blank family/friends gathering who is married but always alone anyway.
Sometimes, I wonder how he is and if he is okay now, really okay, and wonder if I was the reason he mowed our yard for four hours each week. And I remember how surprised I was when my ex-wife came for a visit, offered to mow the yard, and was done in thirty minutes without even breaking a sweat. And I asked her how she got finished so fast and she said, “Your yard is tiny, you know.” I and I was all, yes, I know, but when he mows it, he’s out there for hours and hours. And she was all, I can’t imagine what he does to the lawn for that long. And I was all, maybe he is trimming each blade of grass individually? And she was all, whatEVER [unspoken subtext: Hate it for ya, sister], and going on about her business.
Sometimes, I look at my cell phone and think about calling him and, you know, asking about the yard. And then I wonder what he will do this summer without a yard, because I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have one now.
But then I think, a phone call is sort of EXTREME isn’t it? All that dialing and talking and being vulnerable.
And so I send a card instead.
But it doesn’t mention the yard.
It just says I hope he’s okay.