Drifting off the Coast of Spain...

As the heat sears my brain, thoughts wander in and out, perhaps not as coherent as they should be, but they gnaw into my consciousness and will not be denied.

On the news I see a couple celebrating a marriage 75 years, and now find myself thinking, “That can never be me,” when before I always would have thought, “That will be us someday.”  Divorce has caused me to lose expectations of all sorts, but sometimes the reality of disappointment grips my heart in unexpected ways.

Once a joke was shared between my husband and myself with just a word; just the slightest reference to a person or an event could elicit hoots of laughter, but now there is no one who shares that history.  Sure, my kids know some bits and bobs of it, but not the whole of it, not the deeper, longer parts. The one who knows it no longer desires to share it with me.

I cannot help but wonder, in the nights, in the days, in the distant place where he claims to be “happy,” if he misses that history at all.   Not enough, apparently.

Can I ever hope to find love again, to marry again?  Being the truly Romantic type, with the capital R, yes, of course; I am the true believer.  I believe I had a happy marriage for most of my married life, and I believe it can happen again—different, of course, but happy again.  

And so, to cool my brain and remove myself from this oven of summer-over-baked days, I am reading Patrick O’Brian’s Master and Commander, delighting to be off the coast of Spain when I am immersed in the pages, and wondering where I might find a man who owns the best qualities of both Jack Aubrey and Stephen Maturin.  And if I do, you can be sure I will “beat to quarters” immediately.