On the final day courthouses were open I became legally divorced for the first time. Next week marks the one year anniversary of my then-new husband’s shocking departure.
Relying more on bubble wrap than good sense, I packed up boxes of his pans, clothing, his late wife’s ceramics. He says I broke nothing.
I’ve reorganized closets for one, bookshelves by theme, with no sweet mementos of us.
Yesterday I found six kitchen bowls, his, then texted him a photo. No ransom, I’ll deliver.
High road weary from giving, returning, and cheer. He says he loves me; this misery loves isolation.
— Eileen E. Schmitz (Sequim, Washington)
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