Les petites morts

Divorce is not one death but many little ones. It's like buckshot, not one clean entry but a messy scattering of small wounds . For instance, I was at my friend J's house the other day and she was excited to show me what she was giving her husband for their 20th wedding anniversary -- a photo of them from their wedding day that she'd had placed in an antique frame from her mother-in-law. It was so beautiful, both of them shining with hope in all their wedding finery and late-80s hair dos. (J's bangs were a couple of inches high.) I'm admiring the picture and the job the framer has done when I come across another piece of shrapnel embedded in my heart -- I'd never be re-framing a picture from my wedding day almost 18 years ago. Even though I'd never considered doing this, the possibility is dead.

I'm probably feeling so morbid because I spent 2.5 hours in the company of our lawyer yesterday which is like being in the presence of a dementor from the Harry Potter books. I sat in that depressing conference room watching the lawyer's mouth open and close as I felt all the hope and joy being leeched from my body. Have a nice day.