She carries the burden of what I left behind…

9:45…the alarm rings. Splashing water on my face, lenses in eyes, hair managed, clothes on.
10am…out from my room to serve his second cup of tea and make my own…the caffeine welcome…I am so tired. The night was late, the light turned out maybe 5 hours before…6 if I was able to go right to sleep when I got home.

I peel his apple while my tea steeps, Numi Breakfast Blend…a dark cup, bold and hot, bringing me back to being awake. Once the apple is peeled, cut…first in quarters, then in eighths, it’s show time.  Serving his apple, I settle to my place across from him on the floor cross-legged and attentive…he in his overstuffed, cushiony rocking recliner. “What’s going on?”, he asks.

Struggling to be both alert and energetic, calm and centered…I search to provide some tidbit to titillate his mind and entertain…I’ve learned to listen to AM radio and when needed as a fall back, I will distract him with politics…sometimes I can avoid sharing anything personal which has the more elevated potential of landing myself in the hot seat. Just 30 more minutes and another distraction enters the room. She sits in her place, the office chair at the right end of the desk, and readies herself for the day’s business. If she’s late, his attention will be refocused entirely on her, drilling for her excuse. Wincing as he stands behind her, waiting for what might happen next.

He asks for the Cabela’s catalog from last season…the one with pages marked with all the post-its. The game is on…hide and seek. It’s the one he asked to be filed in the appropriate “sporting goods” catalog box a couple months ago when we tackled the piles that surrounded his chair. Separate, collate, recycle, order this, file that… Where is it? Tension building…it’s not where it’s supposed to be. I think it’s her fault, she’s hoping it’s on me. The time he put in, pouring over which pair of fly-fishing waders to buy or the oh-so-necessary survival doohickey that isn’t in the newest edition…lost. If it’s found, the day is saved. If not, it could get ugly.

The last time I saw her, she wasn’t sure she could keep going. We had persevered for all those years. We stood out in the parking lot of her apartment, worrying over the stock of jam, cranberry sauce, and preserves we were selling at the farmer’s market. Those jars of jam which cost more to make than we could sell them for…but served as calling cards to the outside world for our alternative lifestyle. Did we make enough to last through this season of markets?

It had been a hard day, she was devastated by his cruelty. But she had fucked up…she deserved it she thought. She was committed to our leader and the path she thought she had chosen; for her, no other life could be contemplated in any seriousness. I let her complain, complain in confidence that her pain would not be revealed. But I keep my own secret safe, that some of my things were already moved out of the house and into the apartment I would soon be sharing with my love.

Today…five years and a few months later, I see her again. I pull through the parking space, assemble myself to grab a few things at the market. Cold wind, I return to the car for my hoodie and she has parked behind me. I see her but pretend I don’t. Hustling to catch up to my love and our pup, she intersects. She believes it must be fate…and she is the courageous and open one to acknowledge us. Will this, her talking to us, be the tidbit she will serve up with his second cup of tea?

Earlier in the morning, before the market, while squeezing out my dirty chai teabag, I contemplate cutting an apple. A moment of gratitude that the morning is my own…still, quiet, and easy. I make us both yogurt parfaits…fresh Bulgarian yogurt, raspberries, blueberries, and a bit of granola.

There in that parking lot, she says she has but one question, “What was that water bath canner you had that could hold so many jars?” But what a revealing question it is.

She is making the jam now.

~Lisa