On the night of Mango’s death I got a drink with my ex, breaking a yearlong silence, and apart from catching up (mostly a detailed accounting of our past year’s sex), and strolling memory lane for a bit, we talked for the most part about residual/longstanding feelings for one another–of which mine were, uh, considerably more potent, amorous, whereas hers were kinda more like nostalgia, an old affectionate thing she keeps on the mantle. Which is fine. Our relationship ended for a reason. Compatibility, life situations. It’s like craving the snack that always makes you sick.
She dropped me off at my place and we traded friendly texts in the morning along the wavelength of, “Last night was great, love you, I’m here if you need anything.” (Paraphrasing.)
And good grief: I feel like I’ve lost weight.
I’ve never had an experience where I’ve actually felt profound closure, and maybe it had something to do with the coupling of events: Mango’s death, R.’s reappearance. It was like two beloved things finding their proper conclusion. Like the finale of Breaking Bad: messy, painful, perfect.
Went for lunch with my friend Ana the next day. We did our own catching up and I told her the stories of Mango and R. Told her about all the condolences I was getting. She trained a light on the fact that it’s a sign of having a good support network.
“All these people care about you.”
Two things laid to rest, an emphasis thent rained ont he people whoa re stilla round, who care, and now I feel…light. Bubbly.
Ready to move forward.