We talked yesterday.
First time since last summer,
when I told him to stop calling
because I needed space.
I listened to him prattle on
about this and that
going on in his life,
inserting news about myself
where I could.
Just like
when we were married.
But it felt different
this time.
For almost a year
after we separated
I gave up my time
and control and let him steer
the weekly phone conversations
I didn’t want to have.
Feeling guilty
because I left him
to pick up the pieces
and carry on without me.
He always tried to make it sound
like he was doing fine
without me in Maine.
Like I was missing out
as he connected with old friends,
went dancing,
got back
into community theater,
ate lobster,
and enjoyed the scenic snowfalls.
But yesterday
he said he’s finally happy there,
and he sounded like it.
So during all those phone calls,
when I suspected he wasn’t,
I was right.
And yesterday
that confirmation wasn’t
as important as how truly
happy I feel for him now.
I’ve been feeling
happy for myself, too.
It’s been a long time
since our demise
has been the first thing
on my mind when I wake up.
And lately
I’m less inclined to write
venomous lines about him
in my poetry.
As the saying goes,
“One day you’ll wake up
and realize you’re finally over it.”
I think we made it.