By: Brandy Black
Do you remember writing love letters, cards, post its? I do and I’m finding them in the many boxes I’m unpacking. Yep, I know, it’s a dangerous thing to be alone on a Friday night, pregnant and going through pictures and precious stashes of memories. The pictures take me back to when my wife and I first met, her 30th birthday, our wedding, our anniversary, our first condo, our first house and the worst of it is that I keep thinking my body looks great in every picture. I remember feeling this way when I was pregnant with Sophia, it’s a pure vanity thing but I kept thinking I was never going to get back what I had before and then I’d get bitter because I never really appreciated it when I had it. I guess I’ve been feeling that way slowly and subtly throughout the years as I age and change. I know, I know Mom, it’s a natural part of life and it’s all in your head but I’m pregnant so I’m allowed my moments!
But this wasn’t why I sat down and started to write mid-box, perhaps it’s because my back was getting tired or I just needed a break but the inspiration came from watching the demise of my relationship throughout time while unpacking. The letters from the beginning were written on napkins with lips or memos from my desk pad that said dirty delicious things to my future wife. The words were sweet with love and affection. We held nothing back, we listed off memories of movies, restaurants, romantic interludes, vacations –all with a lust and passion that made me stop and text my wife for something other than milk. As I continued through the box, jealous of the photos –as if I didn’t even know these two girls, smiling, laughing, and embracing with so much love between them I started to see the transgression, the cards began to read “I’m sorry we fought last night but…” or “I think we need more dates…” or “You are the love of my life let us always remember that…” I then stopped and realized that for a few years now, there have been no notes, certainly no post its or steam-written messages on the mirror. We text about groceries and bills and the notion of sitting down to write a love letter seems time consuming and where would I begin? How does it happen? Is it time? Is it marriage? Is it kids? Is it responsibilities? How do we fix it? You can’t just make a pact. Therapy, although eventually it works, is like being told you have to re-break the arm to fix it again. What can you do when you both know that you are in love but you don’t know where to go to find it again? And now going in to two more kids I fear that it will never come back. I’m well aware that the first two years of having a child together does a number on you. I guess I want to meet that couple that breezes through it, that makes it look easy, not the kid part but the love part. I want to be that romantic couple in the movie that sneak looks at each other at the dinner table, that fuck when the kids are asleep, that can’t wait to get a sitter so they can gaze into one another’s eyes and celebrate the life they’ve created together.
When Susan put that engagement ring on my finger I remember picturing all of that –the beautiful house, the dog, the sweet kids, and the love, all the love. Now I feel like we have all of that and I’m a bitch most of the time. I’d rather focus on things being clean or organized or let’s face it –my way. The “I love yous” are lost. So I guess all I can do is try to change little by little each day, bring the spontaneity back, the fun that I once was without all of the baggage and bitterness and know that deep down inside I’m still me and she is still her and the thing that brought us together is still present and fighting for the Hollywood ending.
Enough procrastination…back to boxes…I love you baby. (Let’s see if she still reads my blogs), ugh, there I go with the bitterness again. Practice Brandy, practice.
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Originally published on The Seattle Lesbian
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