I keep thinking. I don’t want someone new. I want him. What if I never meet someone as connected to him as I was? What if I’m not as attracted to them? Or them as attracted to me? What if they don’t make me laugh all the time like he did? It occurs to me I could meet someone better. Someone “perfect” (for me and us). Someone that doesn’t make me cry all the time like he did, too. Someone that stays. Memories of my childhood dawn on me. The missing brother who leads every happy childhood memory. The silent father. The raging mother. Then later life. The ex-fiancé who wanted me to wait until he was ready to get married, but not then, at 19. The physically abusive boyfriend. The perfect boyfriend who I was too much of a fuck up for, for once. The ex-husband. Christ almighty the ex-husband. Nothing is ever going to be perfect. It’s all already too fucked up. Too fucked.
And then, because I’m not too far in over my head to notice what I need to see—at least not when it’s in front of me—these Cohen lyrics:
“Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in”
The mosaic is made from broken glass.
The crucifixion happens before the resurrection.
The pruning occurs before the blossoming.
The crack occurs for the light to come in.
In those desperate moments I am actually right. It isn’t going to be perfect. It’s going to be good. And full of light. And pure joy, as one of my beloved warriors has prophesied over us. And that is enough.