The straw
Ok guys, I admit it, I’m getting all schmoopy lately. You caught me. I am a girl after all, and sometimes I get a little emotional. So in the spirit of mushiness, here’s another semi-emotional post. Enjoy. Or tell me to stop being so mushy. Whatever. : )
The plastic straw is lying on my coffee table, crooked, out place, precariously balancing on a mechanical pencil and eraser that are usually stored below it. It’s usual spot is in mid-air, positioned between two bookends that his mom gave me for my birthday one year. The bookends are beautiful, two polished stones with crystal on the inside. It’s so ironic – such heavy stones holding up such a light plastic straw. Something from his mother holding up something from him. I like it, I like looking at it, remembering. The straw fell a few days ago. It falls every once in a while when I accidentally kick the coffee table or something. I always put it right back between the bookends. But this time, I left it lying crooked on the coffee table. I keep telling myself to fix it, but I don’t. Something inside me is telling me to leave it there this time, that it’s ok that it’s fallen, that maybe it needs to fall for a while.
We dated for five years. I briefly mentioned him before, but never in much detail. It’s hard to write about him, hard to bring up those memories, hard to face the fact that it’s really over. It’s been over for more than two years now, but I still have trouble sometimes accepting the fact that it didn’t work out. I know the split was for the best, and I’ve gotten through it and moved on, but still, something lingers. A part of me will always be his, no matter who else may come and go. There’s a permanent scar, but “scar” is not really the right word. “Scar” implies something horrible, something painful, and although the split was painful (almost unbearably so), I don’t look back on that relationship and think “pain.” I look back and think “love.” The only man I’ve ever truly been in love with. The relationship that all other relationships will be measured against. The one that will always have a soft spot in my heart. He meant so much to me that I can’t bear to give him a cute little fake name for the blog. Instead, he’ll remain completely anonymous, and he’ll remain perfect in my memories.
The photo of him is still crooked on my bookshelf. The last time Hot Marine came over, he finally noticed the photo, walked over to the bookshelf, and asked, “Is this him?” “Yup, that’s him,” I replied, curious to see how he’d react to this somewhat awkward situation. He was cool. I was nervous. He put the photo back, crooked (of course). I kept all my photos of him out for a long time after the split. His photos were everywhere. After five years, I had a lot of photos, and I just kept adding to the displays all over my various apartments over the years. Photos of us from college, photos of us at weddings, photos of his family, his cat, vacations we took together. I loved those photos. And throughout the grieving and sadness that followed the split, I liked to look at them to remind me that it wasn’t all bad. Just the ending was bad, the rest was wonderful and worth remembering. The photos finally came down about an hour before The One Who Got Away first visited my apartment. All the photos came down, except one. The one that’s crooked on the bookshelf. One of my absolute favorite photos of the two of us – one night in college, before a date, about a year into our relationship. We both look great. Two big smiles. Two young kids. God, that was a long time ago. Anyway, I kept one photo up because I can’t bear the thought of completely eradicating him from my apartment, from my memories, from my life.
Although for all intents and purposes, he is completely out of my life. We keep in touch, but not very often. I tried to call him a few months ago, but he must have changed his cell phone number because the number I have doesn’t work anymore. Strange that it had been so long since we’d talked on the phone. Long enough for his phone number to change. Long enough that I’m no longer on the list of people he notifies when his number changes. Not long enough that I’m starting to forget what his voice sounds like – I don’t think I’ll ever forget that. I sent him an email a few months later, just saying hi and asking how he’s doing. I got such a nice reply from him – he’s doing well, working, vacationing, enjoying life. So glad he’s well. He asked how I’m doing, what’s been going on with me, etc. I haven’t responded. That email is still sitting in my inbox, fermenting. I don’t know why I don’t respond. I keep reminding myself to do it, but something inside is telling me to leave it for another day, or another week. The same thing that’s happening with the straw. Something that needs my attention, something that would keep this relationship going, but something that maybe I shouldn’t do. Not yet anyway. Maybe that email needs to ferment a little more. Maybe the straw needs to lie crooked for a few more days. Maybe I need to see that the relationship can die, and my life still moves on. I can ignore him, I can move on, I can let things lapse… and it’s ok.
The straw is a few years old at this point. He had a habit of blowing straw wrappers at me while I wasn’t looking. We’d go out to lunch or dinner at a diner or something, the waiter would give us two plastic straws covered in paper wrappers, he’d tear off one end of the wrapper, blow on the straw, and fling the wrapper right at my face. Bonus points if it hit me right in the eye. It was cute. It was his thing. He always caught me off guard, even after five years of doing it. One night he managed to get an extra straw, saved it until we got back to my apartment, and blew the wrapper at me in my living room. It was the most magnificent straw-wrapper-blowing to date. So unexpected. So perfect. It was hilarious. We laughed all night. I kept the straw and put it up between the two bookends that his mom had bought for me. I laughed at it every time I saw it.
Years later, I find myself still looking over at that straw. But now it’s fallen, crooked, out of place. That hilarious night strewn haphazardly all over my coffee table, balancing on the mechanical pencil, a little too close to the edge of the table, close to falling on the floor. I keep looking at it, telling myself to fix it, but I don’t. And it’s ok. Every time I see it lying there and walk away, I get a little bit stronger. I get a little more closure. I push him one more inch out of my mind, but of course, he stays in my heart. He’ll always be in my heart. No matter where that straw winds up, if I throw it out or lose it one day, or if I take the last photo down one day, he’ll still always be in my heart. The invisible scar remains, and I like it there. I like the mark he left on me. And I think that’s why I might be able to let go of the straw. Because I don’t need to hold on to it anymore. I hold onto him on the inside, where it counts. And really, no matter how close I get to completely letting him go, I’ll always hold on to that scar. I love it, and I love him. I’ll always love him.
So tonight I’m walking away from the straw, again. I smile as I walk away. I can do this.
