The Box

September 2, 2010

I have a box on top of my armoir in the bedroom.  In it I put all the pieces.   I listen to the crickets, remembering the night before, and I take it down and open it.  I look through the forensic pictures, pictures of me after the hospital, healing; the search warrant, the police report, the ER report, the autopsy, Margaret’s written recounting of that day, Mary Ellen’s. Further down is the guide for the bible study of Job we had begun that day at church.  At the bottom is the bulletin from church that day, the 4th of October 2009.  I read the old testament lesson and the gospel and I am stunned.  It is Genesis on the creation of a woman from a man, joining as one, and Mark on divorce.  It is a bizarre irony for me, someone who does not believe in coincidence, someone who believed I married for life, hanging on long past the end.

 I revisit it all tonight, and I thank God for the gift of my next breath.  I resolve not to be cynical and bitter, not to let anger consume me.  It takes such effort.  All my effort to move past the ultimate betrayal of trust.  It is a journey in which the way is not always visible, on which sometimes I get lost and loop back over the same road before moving ahead.  Looking at my box I see how far I have come, instead of focusing how far it is I have to go.

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