Big yellow taxi

It’s odd, really, how much Joni Mitchell has been swirling around in my head lately.

The house is quiet. At the risk of sounding cliche, it’s too quiet. Every time I hear a slight noise, my heart jumps in my chest. Even though I’m sitting here with a big window leading out to the only entrance he could come to, every time I hear a zipper clang against the side of the dryer, I think it’s the sound of him unlocking the front door. Coming back to me.

I wish I had the ability that some have, to let my anger take over so that I feel nothing but white-hot rage when I think about him. Really, I’m not sure if anyone actually does this - maybe it just seems that way sometimes.

Earlier, a taxi pulled onto my street. My heart stopped for a moment, until it turned off into another cul de sac. 

So far this morning I have managed to refill the coolant in the car, start a load of laundry, run the dishwasher, and pack up a few more of his things. If I didn’t have to take the dog out, I doubt I would have gotten out of bed in the first place. But I’m here. I’m awake, after a few hours of fitful sleep. There’s a hole in my chest, a knot in my stomach, but I’m alive. I have to keep putting one foot in front of the other, because what else is there to do?

-

My sister in law called again, and we talked for hours. It was so incredibly nice to be able to just speak about it openly, to not have to keep the secret anymore. He is going home to his parents, alone. He still hasn’t contacted me, not even to let me know that he’s safe. That he’s left the state. I don’t know who this person is, and neither does she. “This isn’t my brother. He’s a shell.” Those were her exact words.

She told me that in a period of ten minutes, talking to her, he said of me: “I just want her to hate me.” No less than five times. 

I guess that would be the easy way out for him, but even now, I don’t hate him. If he turns his back on me, that will be his choice. Not mine. I won’t take his bait to be the villain.