My therapist tells me to put things in a box, put it on a shelf. Lock it away. Metaphorically, of course. She doesn’t know I perfected that move years before I met her. I’m here because I’m trying not to lose my head around my kid. That whole adage about how they’re always watching, we are their first role model. That box in the corner of the kitchen has the broken vase, the one with the flowers I brought home when I was late for my kid’s birthday dinner. No one said anything, but I knew the judgment by the silence in the room when I entered. I raised my voice. I threw my phone down on the counter. I didn’t mean for it to hit the vase and slide it to the edge of the island, the flowers cascading to the floor, a rush of glass and water across the hardwood floor. They went upstairs instead of cutting the cake while I swept the shatters into a dustpan, used an old towel to mop up the liquid. I would have thrown out that box, but my wife leaves it as a reminder that I am on my second chance, and there won’t be another.
No comments:
Post a Comment