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MORE THAN THAT
PAST
The park is empty when I cross the street, clutching my keys in my shaking hands. I managed to toss everything else in my car before making my way over. In that time, I’ve wiped my tears, cleaned my face, and reclaimed my composure.
Not an easy feat when the past is nipping at my heels, threatening to interrupt the life I’ve already started upending. A life that, even a year ago, I was content to live through.
I’m sitting on a swing, staring at the sky when I hear him approach, the wood chips crunching under his feet. I’m not sure what to do, so I remain silent, peering over at him.
In the sunlight, I can take him in, noticing the deeper lines and the greys that have threaded through his thick hair. Gone are the days of button-downs and vests, the days where he had to dress like a professional in order to convince the rest of the world that he could be one. An attempt made in vain because he broke the cardinal rule: don’t fuck your students.
You don’t let them fall in love with you, either.
He stares at me like he knows me, like he can still see every version of Sabrina that he’s ever come across in the one woman who sits on the swing in front of him. I’ve been angry, sad, in love, and vulnerable with this man. So how can he still look at me like I’m the same woman? Like he can recognize me, even though I can hardly recognize myself?
And anyone who doesn’t see you doesn’t deserve to have you.
How long has it been since I’ve felt seen?
Years.
He joins me, sitting on the swing beside me and we remain there, silent as time passes. For two people who’ve lost a lot of time together, we’re somehow comfortable to let it continue to slip through our fingers.
And when I think about time, I think about Peter.
Sometimes I wish we had something to blame the crumbling of our marriage on.
Cheating.
Deceit.
Lying.
No. It was only time. It made the notion that he and I weren’t made for each other too true to ignore.
And how can you be upset with time?
It’s almost as fucking pointless as being upset with yourself.
Abraham breaks the silence first.
“You know why I’m here, Sabrina.”
I nod, leaning forward and staring past the chain of the swing to stare at him. His eyes are on the ground, and I don’t know this reserved man who can’t meet my gaze.
“You may think I took my time and…perhaps I did. But as soon as I knew you were getting a divorce, I came.” He finally looks at me, an emotion I’m afraid to attempt to recognize swirling in his eyes. “I didn’t want to ruin your happily-ever-after. Even if I thought it was supposed to be me.”
Words hold so much power. But not as much power as his absence had.
“It’s more than that,” I start, glancing down at my sandals, the heels on them digging into the dirt beneath my feet. “You know it’s more than that.”
We’re edging around the most important parts—the most tragic parts of our story and subsequent separation.
And in his absence, I attempted to find a happy ending with someone else. Even as I let Peter sweep me into a love that kept my feet firmly on the ground, I should’ve known then what I can’t deny now.
I can never give my heart fully to another again. But I’m in limbo because Abraham will never have that power over me again.
I have little girls who look up to me. I won’t let them see me settle for a tepid love or lose myself in a love that’ll swallow me whole.
