The Rituals of a Broken Heart

From task to task, from moment to moment, from breath to breath

It’s the day after. I didn’t sleep, but the sun has come up.

I will get up now and put on a fresh pair of underwear and socks. No shower today. Maybe I’ll brush my hair. I will, at least, pull it back into a messy ponytail.

I’ll open the curtains to the sunny late spring day. I’ll let it stream into the living room, yellow and hot and sharp as a knife. I’ll look across the street and imagine the neighbors bent over bowls of oatmeal at their dining room table with their laughing little boy, and Wilson, their Great Dane, pacing the floor.

I’ll pull the sheets from the bed with a long, slow tug, letting them slide down the length of the mattress. Put them in the washing machine. Program the water to the hottest setting.

I’ll rinse out the dirty mugs and scrub the forks and knives. I will put everything into the dishwasher and then I’ll wipe off the counters.

I’ll pick the crumpled tissues off the floor and throw them away. I’ll wash the windows and dust the furniture and vacuum the carpets. I will make everything fresh again.

I’ll put away my clothes. Pick up the dirty laundry off the floor. Maybe I will wash a load or two. Yes, I will do all the laundry so that everything smells like detergent. Fresh and clean and new.

I’ll pay the bills that have come due. Maybe I’ll finally set up autopay on my city account before they start charging me for perpetually missing the billing deadline month after month.

I’ll take a walk. I won’t want to. But I will. I will go outside and listen to the sound of my shoes’ hard soles against the sidewalk. I’ll watch the geese fly overhead and the ducks playing in the irrigation ditch. I’ll let the willows weep on me as I pass by, their green tears light against my shoulder. I’ll wave at the joggers that pass by — even the ones that I know will ignore me.

I’ll have my tea. Earl Grey or Rose & Cacao with lots and lots of honey and creamer. I’ll take this time to post something on my business Instagram account. Because I’m supposed to be consistent.

I’ll talk to my mom. She’ll say, “I love you so much, baby — I’m so proud of you,” before we hang up.

I’ll text my childhood friend and congratulate her on her eldest daughter’s graduation. I’ll reminisce about the weekend I was in Albuquerque nearly 20 years ago for another friend’s wedding and I met this little girl, just a toddler at the time. I’ll remark how quickly time goes by. She’ll “LOL” and tell me the travel plans she and her husband made for this summer, and we’ll end with a few Love yas.

I’ll check my email. I’ll look for the names of the people I long to hear from. I’ll check for notes from my clients. I’ll delete a dozen things. I’ll open an email and position my fingers to respond. I’ll take a deep breath and close the window, changing my mind.

I’ll open my ever-expanding Word document filled with dozens of essays. I’ll start writing a new piece. Three paragraphs in, I’ll check Twitter. Then Instagram. I’ll look for messages from friends — please let there be messages from friends. I’ll return to the document when I find nothing in my notifications.

I’ll listen for the dryer to signal that it’s done. I’ll listen for the dishwasher to signal that it’s done. I’ll listen for the mailman. The neighbor’s dog. The garbage truck.

I’ll give up on my essay.

I’ll archive things. Delete things. Put things away that I don’t want to look at anymore.

I’ll video call the kids. Ask Ben to show me his new nose piercing and Kai to show me his newly pierced ears. I’ll listen to Baby Alex sing the ABC song that he just memorized. I’ll laugh and clap and tell them I love them and miss them. And I do. So much it hurts.

I’ll drag myself to the mat and do a few Warriors. I’ll baby my semi-immobile shoulder, almost losing my balance. I’ll get frustrated by how long it’s been since I’ve been physically capable of completing my normal yoga practice. I’ll take a nap, instead, on the naked mattress, a blanket over me even though it’s 70 degrees in the house.

I’ll make dinner when I wake up, wondering where the day went. I’ll have to pause, mid-cooking, to unload the dishwasher, because there aren’t enough clean bowls in the cupboard.

I’ll open the windows to let in the cool night air, to chase out that pre-summer heat. I’ll draw the curtains so the neighbors can’t see into the house. I’ll stand there for a moment, as they reach for me, the evening winds stirring them into a contented shimmy.

I’ll check my texts a dozen times as night falls. And then a dozen more. I’ll check my email. Once. Twice. Three times. I’ll scroll through my photos, noting the fresh gaps.

I’ll make the bed with the clean sheets. I’ll smell them, taking in the scent of soap. I’ll tuck them between the mattress and box spring. I’ll straighten them, fuss with the way I’ve draped them, making sure everything is centered.

I’ll climb into that bed in freshly washed pajamas. I’ll check for text messages one last time before I put the phone on airplane mode and plug it in for the night.

I’ll turn off the lights. I’ll curl up in the fetal position, my injured arm curled around a pillow that I hold against my chest so that I don’t wake up with my shoulder aching.

I’ll fall asleep. In a little while. Not too long from now.

I’ll wake up in the morning and start again.

© Yael Wolfe 2021