This is Part Four of a Five Part Story!
CLICK HERE to read Part One
CLICK HERE to read Part Two
CLICK HERE to read Part Three
CLICK HERE to read Part One
CLICK HERE to read Part Two
CLICK HERE to read Part Three
My elusive butterfly finally settled into my gossamer net. I knew deep in my heart that this fluttering beauty had no intention of being pinned down quite yet, but I was persistent. Slowly I plucked at those wings until I was assured he could no longer fly away.
When we first met (me, sixteen years old wishing for my prince charming . . . he, seventeen years old wishing to flit and fly), could we really have guessed who we would become? Did our meeting so early in life somehow stunt our growth like the warning of a parent to a child who wanted to smoke a cigarette whilst he was still growing? Hind sight cannot change the past. Hind sight is the last runner in the race of life.
And so, both of us (Barry and I), ignored the nibbles of doubt and hesitation. We just forged ahead.
Everyone’s eyes lit up as I flashed my diamond engagement ring. Our parents took the reins as they argued and planned out the wedding guest lists, the band and who was paying for what. ‘Oh, let them have their fun,’ I thought as I dismissed the logistics that really didn’t matter to me. Attending every bridal show advertised in the bridal magazines I collected daily, I knew the dress I wanted. Buying my dress wholesale was risky but economical. I knew my grandmother would be ready at her sewing machine to make any adjustments. She would make it perfect. The world seemed to be shining so dazzling bright. Did it blind me somehow, making it impossible for me to see Barry trying so hard to find the shadows?
On a rainy Saturday night in June, I walked down the silk covered aisle toward the Bema of the synagogue and towards becoming religiously and legally a wife. Barry met me at the end of the aisle and together we stepped up on the Bema and under the Chuppah where our parents were already standing.
The rabbi’s words floated in the air above me. He blessed our union, instructing us to echo the Hebrew words he intoned. Barry then placed my grandfather’s gold wedding band on my right pointer finger. Placing a napkin-wrapped glass at Barry’s feet, the rabbi nodded, signaling Barry to stomp the glass until it shattered.
“There signifies,” the rabbi explained to the gathering, “the fragility of glass when it is shattered and broken. The fragility of glass reminds us of the fragility of human relationships. The strongest love is subject to disintegration. May this man and woman standing before you, gently carry each other as a mother cradles her child in her arms . . . catch each other before the fall and sip the flavors of life, till death do they part. Amen.”
And, we were together sipping the flavors of life. Perhaps not till death did we part, but nineteen years of sharing our lives was nothing to sneeze at, right? Good, bad, happy, sad, arguments, cold shoulders, kissing and making up. We were just fine, more than okay, thank you very much. We were just fine!
The fog was lifting so slowly that I barely took notice of the murkiness that lingered. But, I felt its breath and its weight beginning to crush down on my chest. I couldn’t articulate or answer the undefinable questions invading my everyday world. There were no visible villains, no good guy, bad guy. There was just us. What’s wrong? Why was Barry so morose and silent? Where was he and why did he disappear for hours without explanation? Why was my bed so cold as I fell asleep alone?
All I knew, as the fog no longer veiled my view, was that I was terribly spent, exhausted, needing to end the heaviness that stooped my shoulders.
I stood at the bathroom doorway as I watched Barry spreading shaving cream on his still handsome face. I stepped further into the bathroom and stood behind him. Our mirrored reflections stared back at me. My mind pictured the glass shattering. A ragged ribbon separating and distorting this man and woman.
“I want a divorce. I want a divorce.” I heard the words from mouth crying out to Barry’s mirrored reflection. Barry rinsed his face. Turning to face me, he put his hands on my shoulders.
“It’s been over for a long time now. I’ll leave when I find an apartment.”
He walked out of the bathroom. He walked out of the double red barn doors and left me standing alone when I was sixteen and he was seventeen. I stood alone again. My race was over. I stopped running. I could no longer chase towards the finish line until someone caught up with me. No cheering crowds, no medals for a victorious finish. Kismet, I suppose.
When we first met (me, sixteen years old wishing for my prince charming . . . he, seventeen years old wishing to flit and fly), could we really have guessed who we would become? Did our meeting so early in life somehow stunt our growth like the warning of a parent to a child who wanted to smoke a cigarette whilst he was still growing? Hind sight cannot change the past. Hind sight is the last runner in the race of life.
And so, both of us (Barry and I), ignored the nibbles of doubt and hesitation. We just forged ahead.
Everyone’s eyes lit up as I flashed my diamond engagement ring. Our parents took the reins as they argued and planned out the wedding guest lists, the band and who was paying for what. ‘Oh, let them have their fun,’ I thought as I dismissed the logistics that really didn’t matter to me. Attending every bridal show advertised in the bridal magazines I collected daily, I knew the dress I wanted. Buying my dress wholesale was risky but economical. I knew my grandmother would be ready at her sewing machine to make any adjustments. She would make it perfect. The world seemed to be shining so dazzling bright. Did it blind me somehow, making it impossible for me to see Barry trying so hard to find the shadows?
On a rainy Saturday night in June, I walked down the silk covered aisle toward the Bema of the synagogue and towards becoming religiously and legally a wife. Barry met me at the end of the aisle and together we stepped up on the Bema and under the Chuppah where our parents were already standing.
The rabbi’s words floated in the air above me. He blessed our union, instructing us to echo the Hebrew words he intoned. Barry then placed my grandfather’s gold wedding band on my right pointer finger. Placing a napkin-wrapped glass at Barry’s feet, the rabbi nodded, signaling Barry to stomp the glass until it shattered.
“There signifies,” the rabbi explained to the gathering, “the fragility of glass when it is shattered and broken. The fragility of glass reminds us of the fragility of human relationships. The strongest love is subject to disintegration. May this man and woman standing before you, gently carry each other as a mother cradles her child in her arms . . . catch each other before the fall and sip the flavors of life, till death do they part. Amen.”
And, we were together sipping the flavors of life. Perhaps not till death did we part, but nineteen years of sharing our lives was nothing to sneeze at, right? Good, bad, happy, sad, arguments, cold shoulders, kissing and making up. We were just fine, more than okay, thank you very much. We were just fine!
The fog was lifting so slowly that I barely took notice of the murkiness that lingered. But, I felt its breath and its weight beginning to crush down on my chest. I couldn’t articulate or answer the undefinable questions invading my everyday world. There were no visible villains, no good guy, bad guy. There was just us. What’s wrong? Why was Barry so morose and silent? Where was he and why did he disappear for hours without explanation? Why was my bed so cold as I fell asleep alone?
All I knew, as the fog no longer veiled my view, was that I was terribly spent, exhausted, needing to end the heaviness that stooped my shoulders.
I stood at the bathroom doorway as I watched Barry spreading shaving cream on his still handsome face. I stepped further into the bathroom and stood behind him. Our mirrored reflections stared back at me. My mind pictured the glass shattering. A ragged ribbon separating and distorting this man and woman.
“I want a divorce. I want a divorce.” I heard the words from mouth crying out to Barry’s mirrored reflection. Barry rinsed his face. Turning to face me, he put his hands on my shoulders.
“It’s been over for a long time now. I’ll leave when I find an apartment.”
He walked out of the bathroom. He walked out of the double red barn doors and left me standing alone when I was sixteen and he was seventeen. I stood alone again. My race was over. I stopped running. I could no longer chase towards the finish line until someone caught up with me. No cheering crowds, no medals for a victorious finish. Kismet, I suppose.
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