Dear 29

Remember when we met? It was the day I ran my first 5K, which felt like it marked something triumphant. Like I had accomplished something. It did. I had. We had a few good months after that, but then things starting turning south. It seems to me, 29, that we never really recovered from that.

Look. I know any relationship will have turmoil. I know that a marker of a good relationship is how well you weather strife. So maybe this is all about me, because I just couldn't deal. I tried and tried for as long as I could, but I just got so TIRED of trying. You know? I mean, some things should be easy. Some things should feel natural and effortless, and after a while, nothing did.

Do you really want me to go there? The job. The money. The neverending illnesses and foot injuries and home repairs and my husband's job and family trouble and....I could go on. But I won't because I think the point is this: We grew stagnant, 29. We just never really got above okay after a certain point.

We gave it a good go, didn't we? I mean, we had some moments, even when things were tough. But I think for the good of both of us, we have to just let this one go.

And, okay, fine. I didn't want to go here. There's someone new. 30. This may be painful to hear, but I think we're on the verge of something great. It's all very unknown right now. The future is wide open, clear, and hopefully, full of promise. I think I have to choose that. For you, for me. We deserve something better than the bleak past we have between us.

Plus, also, I HATE YOUR UGLY FACE, 29. You SUCK.

Love,

Amber

the next day, the black butterfly
is still battering the cement slopes
beneath the overpass, and my feet
are slamming into darkness, the
pavement meeting pace too quickly,
and everything is salt and wet,
and breath, and fast.

you held out longer than you thought you would
broke the marrow between your teeth, finally,
and spit out the shards. you pressed a hallelujah
in skin with fingernails. you raged.

it was a buzz in the fist
then a stone in your throat,
it was nothing.

it was lips pressed,
stasis.

it was a whisper.

it was the dark thing that twists
the bright band of your iris

so they stop looking for the broken wires.

it was the electric,
the crackle of blood
seizing in a broken vein.

it was nothing.

I am not afraid of these spaces,
these breaths, but the tight places.
the child sleeping in my elbow.

the unexpected gift of a rainy day in summer
gray clouds slumbering swells of summer
a crooked-winged bird limping on the gravel
the unexpected gift of a rainy day in summer
how it lulls, how it fumbles every set intention
an earwig crawling from an orange pepper
a foot muddied, a puddle raveled up the curb
the unexpected gift of a rainy day in summer
stiff-necked stare toward a slow wind, legs
lumbering. so it is how you grew tired.
and how you stretched your arms and scooped
air, and how you grew toward the burbling river.

Prescription for the (my) crazies: Get outside more. Exercise more.

Here's what you do. Walk down the middle of your street after a run. Pause next to the neighbor's magnolia tree and take a deep breath. Lift your face to the gray-blue sky and let the wind cool your sweaty skin. Remember: this is why you're here. Head home.

She's a good kid.

We had a great morning at the park until something changed, I don't know what, but I was faced with Madeleine running in one direction and Violet running in the other. Violet was okay -- she was headed toward the enclosure of the playground, which was near our car -- but Madeleine was bolting toward a vast open field and a parking lot.

"Madeleine," I yelled. "Come back! We're going back to the playground."
"NO," she shouted without looking back. She marched on.

I bolted after her, and as soon as I could, grabbed her arm. She immediately dissolved into hysterical tears. "NO," she cried. "NO! I WANT TO GO THIS WAY RIGHT NOW!"

"Madeleine," I said, my voice as even as I could make it. "We are going back to the playground. You can either come with me, calmly, or we can go home. Which one?"

"Go this way," she said petulantly, pointing to the parking lot.

I reiterated her choices and she followed me reluctantly, a few paces behind. Suddenly she stopped. "Madeleine," I said, turning back to her. "Come on."

And a look flashed in her eyes. Stubbornly resistant, yes, but mostly afraid. She stared up at me with big, serious eyes, and honestly, I felt so bad for her just then. You could see she knew how she was supposed to behave and just wasn't behaving that way, and she didn't like where it was leading. Like a little girl who really, just then, had no control over her actions. So vulnerable.

I scooped her up and carried her back to the playground and she cried and cried, alternating between pleas for apple juice and to wear her footie pajamas.

"Are we having a tough day?" I asked her gently, and she nodded, face contorted, tears pouring down her face.

Later, after we were home and she had on her footies and had just finished a big lunch, the park (at least in my mind) mostly forgotten, Mad curled up in my lap. "Sorry," she said.

"Sorry for what?" I asked her, surprised.
"Sorry for not listening at the park," she said.

"It's okay," I told her. "Sometimes when I'm hungry and tired, I don't want to listen either. And sometimes I just want to cry, too."

She stared at me for a second; I could see her calculating the weight of my words. Then she smiled and made kissy noises at my face.