A former lover walked by me on the street. I was sitting, talking with a friend, and being present when this figure from the past strode by, ignoring the weak, “Hi,” and wave I produced. I was taken away from the moment and disquieted.
She was my first love after losing my wife, Mary. It was a fireworks show of an affair and lasted nearly as long. In addition to a passionate romance, it was a convincing game of family. Her daughters and my sons seemed to belong in each other’s lives from the start. Anywhere we went, people assumed we were a traditional family. I got caught up in the play. I missed my role as “Husband and Father” to the degree that I was unintentionally acting it out. We discussed and enacted co-parenting, but we avoided labeling the relationship other than “friends” to subvert questions from the curious (and perhaps ourselves).
The whole arrangement remained under a thin secrecy. It seemed right that we alone should be navigating our new, post-marital existences. We discussed establishing something “long term” and she returned my expressions of love.
Then the connection was broken. We had a day of deep, physical connection. After hours of pleasure, we went to dinner and a concert. We lost a piece of our bond somewhere between that afternoon and the restaurant. Nirvana’s “All Apologies” played during dinner and in the chorus, Cobain sing screamed “Married, Buried.” I always thought it was “Mary, Mary,” and that’s what I heard that night. We knew that things had changed, but didn’t discuss it. This was unusual. Our relationship had been built on exploring uncomfortable emotions, suspicions, and fears. I chalked some of it up to exhaustion and my own desire to return to bed together. We got to the concert during the opening act. We took our seats as one song ended and the artist introduced the next. It was a song about a ghost named Mary. A thick heat swelled inside me as I forced a joke, “It seems we have a chaperone tonight.” My stiffness and discomfort did not abate through the evening and was worse the next day. I again tried to explain the feeling away as exhaustion, but we didn’t talk for a week and when we met next, we were no longer lovers.
There wasn’t anger, I believe we were both confused about what had happened and there was no blame to place. We made an effort at a friendship, but she never seemed comfortable around me again and that soon ended.
I think about her and what we shared more often than I would like to admit. I see her at odd times and remain confused about my feelings toward her. I have great fondness and appreciation for the time we shared. She was there for me in a very difficult time and held my hand as I shifted from a grief mindset to a healing and growth journey. I have changed a lot in the two years hence. In great part, I have her to thank for that. And now that feels like nostalgia for what was. A comforting feeling of a happy time, but not one that needs to be reproduced or re-envisioned. It was right when it was right.
After she walked by and I was shaken by the surprise, my friend asked, “Do you think this is a sign that you should reach out to her?” I didn’t have an answer, the unanswered questions surrounding the end of our relationship seem to call out for asking. I realize now that I must find those answers in myself and come to peace with not knowing what I cannot know.