Letting Love Leave
I fell in love once years ago and I haven’t been the same since.
Meeting him was like sinking into a bathtub filled with ice. I don’t believe in past lives, but he looked a lot like someone who broke my heart a handful of times. Except he never did. He cherished it, carrying it around like an injured bird in his shirt pocket.
I’m not the type to give my smiles away freely, but when he grinned, my whole body had no choice but to mimic his joy.
He had one of those strong, three syllable names. The kind that demanded my attention when I spoke it.
Hook, line, and sinker. I’m a helpless trout, mouth open in utter adoration, ready to be swept away by his unsuspecting charm.
The ringlets of his hair bounced at the top of his ears as he told me about his favorite comic books. He had a hard time looking me in the eyes, but I couldn’t get enough of his.
I grew up on the pining stories of Jane Austen and the Bronte sisters. I didn't believe in the suave, amorous nature of Mr. Darcy or the mysterious, obsessive romance of Heathcliff, in the same way I didn’t think the Boogeyman or unicorns existed. I know better now.
When he held his head up to introduce himself, I gasped in a way I hoped no one noticed. And, I couldn’t be sure, but I swore I heard the same come from him.
I had learned the stories of love at first sight. I knew folks who thought they had met their soul mates. I watched all the movies with the meet cutes and serendipitous encounters, ending with happily ever after and rose petals falling from the ceiling.
I was a cynic. A doubter. A naysayer. Until I heard his voice sing my name. That’s what it felt like. He stood in the doorway and sang my name without effort and it felt like I was born on that stoop.
I didn’t know love carried the strength to bestow new life upon us.
I saw myself for the first time through him. He held onto my words like there would be a quiz later. He saw me in a way I thought existed only in the dreamiest, most whimsical corners of my own mind.
I had been in love before, I thought, which is why I walk around so abysmally disappointed. I frustrated myself with how I adapted to other’s personalities. How my interests, passions, mannerisms, ideologies, and habits shifted based on who I was dating, even if only briefly.
In retrospect, when those relationships ended, I didn’t like myself in love. I felt like a phony. A traitor to the righteous cause of woman wandering with abandon. Woman finding her own purpose, sticking with her own road map. Woman searching for anything other than what’s expected.
But with him, I had planned our non-traditional wedding, imagined the children we would foster, and grew old by his side within the first half hour we were together.
I told him I really loved well-designed public restrooms and had hopes of curating a coffee table book filled to the brim with unique, stylish, breath-taking restroom experiences from coast to coast, as odd and counter-intuitive as that may sound. He told me that was brilliant and he also paid attention to restroom design.
We went to a local bar (before my sobriety days) and he said be sure to go into the restroom at some point. We shared a fun-filled night of dancing and connecting over ridiculous 90s movies (Point Break came up a few times in conversation). I went to the restroom and was impressed with how clean and new everything was compared to the dive bar from which I had entered.
It was nice, but more like hotel lobby public restroom and less like someone should make a coffee table book about how amazing some public restrooms are. But then I used the sink. It was one of those fancy vessel sinks that’s raised above the countertop and was built in a beautiful bronze. I knew then he understood.
We don’t speak anymore. Not on purpose. Not because something happened. We just don’t. And at first, that bruised my ego and gave me pause, but if I’m being honest with myself, I knew it was too serene, too majestic, too easy to last.
But where’s the harm in connecting with someone like we did? In calling something love even if it didn’t mean forever?
So often, we’re expected to find this person who makes up the rest of our lives and while I fully support that endeavor, if it’s what’s in the stars for you personally, I want to gently remind everyone that former loves don’t have to be a failure.
I want us to consider letting love flow like a steady river current instead of latching onto love like a meteor crash landing. We all know how that ends.
It’s ok to let love leave. It’s ok to help it pack. It’s ok to drive it to the bus stop and pay for its ticket home.
Let go. Revel in the memories of being adored and cherished. Soften your heart when it’s easy to let love rot like a molding vase of wildflowers. They were never meant to be plucked.
Bethany Swoveland is a poet and digital artist in Texas. She’s available for freelance work and can be reached at bethanyswoveland@gmail.com. Sign up for Bethany’s monthly email newsletter here.