The passage of time...

We were celebrating our one year anniversary a year ago in this very room.

One year of laughing and crying, highs and lows, fights and makeups. To commemorate, you made dinner. Chicken, sweet potatoes and seasoned veggies. I picked up the wine. That cheap Riesling you can’t get enough of. 

Sitting around the dinner table, we talked about what year one of marriage had been like for us. The happy times. Our honeymoon in Palm Springs, the road trip to Detroit, kayaking with our family and friends. The unexpected nuances we didn’t prepare ourselves for. Making a budget, career changes. Heck, even grocery shopping for each other. We even talked about a virus that had made its appearance stateside. It seemed like a far-away problem that could not directly affect us. If it did, we were ready to face the future together.

I did the dishes. You put on the Office. We laughed and turned in by nine. You know, a typical Tuesday night in our new married bubble. We made love and I held you until you fell asleep. I left the lights on in the dining room, so I got up to shut them off. I linger a few moments to listen to the tick-tock of the grandfather clock your mother gave us in the corner. A peaceful sound that always puts me at ease. It was a perfect ending to a perfect night. 

Fast forward a month. Covid has shut down the restaurants and bars we frequented on the weekends. My hours have been cut back at work. The gym we both frequent has been closed. We were spending more and more time confined in our home. Suddenly, there were so many things to fight about. An abundance of time to nit-pick and become annoyed over minute disagreements. Disagreements became arguments, arguments turned to yelling. Around that same dinner table that we celebrated our anniversary not four weeks prior, we were shouting over why I couldn’t properly close a drawer all of the way. Why you insisted on putting the kitty litter box in my office. We argued and made up, but there was a feeling of uneasiness lingering in that room.

Then the petty fights became personal. One minute we’re watching church through a computer screen in that room. The next I know, I’m shouting at you about why I’m not ok with your friend spending so much time at our house, and how dare you not run it by me that she’s staying with us for three days. I could see the hurt in your eyes, but I kept digging. I kept pushing. You screamed at me to stop, but I didn’t. Why didn’t I? Was I that insecure about us? At the time, I did not bother to stop and think. I had to win, so I picked, and picked and picked. You ended up storming out with tears in your eyes. I sat there alone, enjoying my hollow victory, listening to the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock. 

Two months later, we’re having dinner in silence. Our new normal. You keep your head down as you carefully cut up your steak. I ask how your day was. 

“Fine.”

I ask how your girls night with your mom and sister went.

“Fine.”

I try to tell you about the new job I’ve started. How I enjoy the people, the work and the projects I’m supposed to be beginning soon.

“Good.”

I tell you that the news reports are optimistic that the world will start opening up again. The restaurants and bars we loved to go to. How our gym will reopen. Church will be offering in-person service starting next week. We can go see our friends and loved ones again. 

“Great.”

I admit defeat and return to my steak and potatoes. We finish our meals in silence. You clean your plate and head straight to bed. I sit there listening to the rhythmic ticking of that grandfather clock, saying a prayer that tomorrow will be better.

A month later I’m gathering up the courage to ask you about counseling. Whether you would like to give it another shot. I sit down to join you at the dining room table. I reach for your hand and try to give it a reassuring squeeze. You would have thought I reached out and slapped you. The tidal wave of emotion you have been holding back for months comes pouring out. Your anger. Your frustration. Your hurt; so much hurt. The list of my offenses is long. How I yelled at you, manipulated you into forgiving me, lied to you about how things were going to get better. I should have listened. I should have gotten down on my knees, and apologized until I was blue in the face.

Instead, I did the exact opposite.

I got in your face and matched you offense for offense. Volume for volume. Hurt for hurt. You pushed me aside and ran to the bedroom. This time I followed. When the door slammed in my face, I continued to scream, so loud and so long that my throat was raw that night. You didn’t come back out of the bedroom. I returned to that dining room chair. What the hell did I just do?The grandfather clock kept ticking away. It felt like it was ticking away the time we had left remaining together as man and wife. 

Summer is here. Instead of enjoying the beautiful afternoon, we’re sitting around that dining room table, talking about trying a separation. The counselor recommended it. I’m all for it, anything to help us heal. You’re against it; if I leave, you don’t believe that you can ever take me back. I try to listen, I try to console, I try to let you know I’m still committed to you and our marriage. You do not want to hear it. Is it too little too late? We came to an agreement that I’ll move out next Tuesday. I’ll stay at a friend's house until we can resolve and reconcile. The grandfather clock is already counting down the time I have left under that roof. 

It’s Tuesday.  The last of my things are packed up in the truck. I try to say something reassuring. Something hopeful. Something loving. Heck, anything to bring a ray of hope into a relationship that had been so fraught with darkness lately. You’re not in a place to hear what I have to say. The hurt is written all over your face, but you’re too proud right now to say anything. I ask if I can hug you before I go; you say that’s not a good idea. I match pride for pride, and decide not to show you the tears. I grab my bag and head for the door. The grandfather clock kept rhythm with my footsteps. 

Four months into the separation, you reach out one afternoon, asking me to please come home. How you’re not ok, and you just want somebody to hold you. I find you at the table with your best friend. She’s been watching you all day. When she leaves, you tell me about the depression, the frustration and loneliness you’ve been feeling. I reach for your hand, and this time you don’t flinch. You bury your head in my chest, and wrap you in a tight embrace. Promising you, myself and God that I wouldn’t let you go again. The grandfather clock ticks away as we embrace for what feels like forever. Maybe father time has given us another chance.

A month into coming home it’s all falling apart again. The fights started back up over dishes and lights. I tease you about how you don't like people telling you, "good luck," and you take it as a personal attack. You pushed me away once again. I was informed that you would not  be attending any Thanksgivings with me, and that I have not changed one bit. You’re convinced I’m going to physically harm you- or one day harm our children- if we stay together. I don’t know how to process what was just said. I would do no such thing, but how do you convince someone who trusts you so little? The grandfather clock ticks away as we stare at each other in that deftly silence. Finally, I just start grabbing as many of my things as I can, and say it would be best if I go. 

It’s been nearly a year since our anniversary dinner, and we’re back at that dining room table. We haven’t seen each other since I left. What do you want to do moving forward I ask? 

“I don’t want anything from you. No future, no children; nothing.”

That wasn’t the first time I’ve heard that lately, so I press on. Is that final? Is there any opportunity to reconcile?

“No, nothing is final, but I do not want to reconcile with you right now.”

Ok, so I ask what can I do now or in the future to help?

“Nothing.” You lean back and cross your arms, as if you were putting up the last of many walls that had been constructed in the past year. Defense to ensure that I may never get close enough to hurt you again.

I don’t know what to say or do. You don’t ask for a divorce. Instead, you want to wait three more months to decide if you want to continue in this marriage. I have no other reply other than a nod. You get up and walk to the back yard; the furthest distance you can put between me and you on the property. I sit there numb. There’s anger, sadness and desperation sure, but those have been constant companions for a long time. Numbness is new. Numbness is scary. 

I honestly don’t know how long I sat there at that table. Our one year anniversary dinner seems like a distant memory now. Do I keep fighting for the vows we promised each other? I stood before you and swore for better or for worse, and this is certainly the worst. Part of me does not want to let go. Do I relent and ask for a divorce? You are in obvious pain, and maybe me continuing to hope for reconciliation is blinding me to your true desire. To be free, to have a new start, to put this marriage behind you.

 The grandfather clock offers no help; just it’s rhythmic reminder that one more second has passed by. That time itself- what we thought we had years of together- is precious, and it may be running out. I go, knowing that I may never come back here again. I may not come back to you again.