There was no Hollywood ending.

February 28, 2014

       I set the scene early in the morning, primed myself for drama. Aksel was moving slowly, having dropped off our oldest at school and come back home to me. The plan was for him to head to work, to drive to Rochester and pick up the other two girls later. He was leaving me for the day, for the weekend, alone. Maybe I was armoring myself, amping up to be ready for the loneliness that was stalking me. Maybe I was running on crazy hormones...either way, I was bristling. I had the day outlined in my head, and now here he was, in my space, mucking up the script. 

       I got short with him as he made breakfast for both of us, huffy when he was trying to be chatty while getting dressed. I sat inwardly fuming, quiet but on guard, waiting for him to hit the road. I could tell he didn't want to leave. He stalled, doubled back for another kiss, said his goodbyes more than once. I shooed out then and listen for the door to close. When it did, I sighed. It should have been perfect then. I was all alone in a quiet, empty house and I could do anything I wanted. 

       But the world closed in on me suddenly; I'm sitting on our bed and I am slammed with Grief. The silence of the quiet house is a horrendous noise. I keened into it, shocking myself with the shrill as it echoed around the room. As quickly as the shriek flew out, it was gone again, leaving in its wake this horrible silence. 

       My ears strained to hear him coming for me. That moment would have been perfectly executed, such a Hollywood ending: upon hearing her Grief stricken wail, our dashing hero stops the car mid-road and sprints back to the house. The front door is thrown open in his haste and the sound of a bounding (6'2" and 'like a gazelle') husband is heard before we see our broken heroine joined center stage by the love of her life, here to rescue her from the depths of Grief. There are hugs, tears, dramatic music and catharsis. 

       

       Alas, there was no Hollywood ending. I had pushed him away and there I remained, alone for the day. Plans fell to the floor and motivation dissipated. In his sloth like morning routine he had offered companionship, in the way he could, by just his presence. Maybe it would have helped to sit quietly that day, lounging in that silence and each other for a little while. Maybe it would have been wonderful. 

       Or maybe I needed that pain, that drowning in emotion for a moment in time before I could come up for air again. I'd have frightened him perhaps in that keening, that mournful echo tearing into his heart a fresh wound. Maybe it's best that it happens alone: the heroine saves herself one breath, one minute, one day at a time. Save that Oscar winning performance for another day.