Photo by Cumberland Insurance

Number 913

He came by yesterday with boxes of books and white garbage bags with my clothes. Stuff I haven’t seen in a number of years.

When I saw his piled back seat, a wave of ‘oh my’ sadness tightened around my neck.

I left those things at Number 913 in some backward logic that me taking a break from us was temporary. When it became apparent that we couldn’t fix the mess I made, I didn’t want to enter Number 913 and answer to the ghosts I had conjured.

So I never did … go back.

One time I mustered courage over the phone to bring up my stuff, but he said he didn’t want to talk about it. Neither did I really, I was just feigning control.

Well, he’s moving in June. And now my living room floor and sofa are littered with 13 boxes and 7 trash bags of abandoned possessions, materials I used to enjoy.

I don’t mind the idea of them. But the fact of them in my house means this man had to find boxes and bags, load my things, carry them out of Number 913, down the elevator, to his car and drive the 110 mile road like a delivery service.

We greeted each other with a hug. In spite of our past, we remain above civil.

We unloaded his car. We went to a Mexican restaurant for dinner. We kept the conversation to work and our parents. A few hours later he dropped me off at the house.

We hugged goodbye.

When he drove away, I stood on the dark front porch and released the uncontainable pressure valve from my eyes.

Experiencing Grace is humbling.

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