Dissolution: the act or process of separating into parts or ending something.
How do I separate the pieces that were fused into a marriage of 29 years? This was the first dissolution.
The wall is a dedication to all that once was. The letters F A M I L Y stuck to the wall now hover above faces, permanently trapped in their frames, now sneering at me. Who belongs to whom? Are they no longer family if separated? I leave empty spaces, claiming who belongs to me. You, in your turquoise shorts, aloof, barefoot on the North Shore—a honeymoon moment now a thorn in my heart as I leave you on the bare wall. You aren’t alone; your parents hang in their frame. In that moment, our wedding day, they smile clueless of the future, so full of hope. I will take the pictures of our daughter and leave you one. I jumped through hoops to have a child while you held back, made life difficult because it wasn’t exactly what you wanted. How did I not see how hard I tried to be everything you wanted, and still, it was not enough?
The silence is deafening as my emotions and mind whirl with cliché Hallmark moments that won’t be. Look at the firepit where grandchildren would have sat, you building a fire, me making s'mores and telling not-too-scary stories under the stars—no, that is gone. The grassy yard where we would play ball, chase the dog, or run through sprinklers—no, that won’t be a picture either.
Art that finally found a balance of color and shapes now comes down. I leave the hooks like daggers piercing the wall.
The parts of our life that I could carry alone in my car on various trips now go into the bachelorette apartment equipped with a kitchenette. How did I earn this?
The ending of something came later. The end of support, care, and "How are you, your mom, your sister?" Even before your collar was off, you forgot me. It seemed so easy for you. While I made the move on my own, without your help, I later found myself traveling first to the Midwest to help my aging parents, my mom who was dying of cancer, and then my sister whose cancer returned. I was surrounded by death, dying, and a dad who had a stroke and lost his marbles. Meanwhile, you spent cash on $8,000 bikes, hiding them from the list of assets while we were still not divorced, making matches on Tinder, and complaining about the shoes I left in the garage.
The dissolution of love—does it happen drop by drop, days turning into years where you loved me a little less until finally, that day came when you said, "We're done," and what was left was a mirror drop in a sea of 29 years. It saddens and intrigues me—was I always a sleepwalking zombie, making everything come together when in truth, the gap between us was pushing us apart?
The final dissolution was the end, the end of your life. You had singlehood for five months, the younger woman, our Yoga teacher, a thriving business, but no, apparently, there was something inside you that I never saw—no one did. One week after my mom's death on Christmas, you spent the day with our daughter, left notes in your friends' mailboxes, texted eight people "I love you," and then, outside the state police office, you put a gun in your mouth and left this world behind.
Dana K Crosland
Holy Lament Member
