Seven Year Itch
It began with love letters. Words of introduction and
appreciation. An opening of his heart to mine and mine to his.
I carried a few of his letters in my purse and when I
felt lonely for his presence, I pulled them out and read them. When I was done,
I’d close my eyes and inhale deeply, remembering our times together and
reliving those experiences he wrote about. It brought him back; it brought his
love back. It brought our promises together into a mosaic that became tomorrow.
He loved my stories. He told me that he read them when
he was in camp, alone and lonely. “Your stories are snippets of your soul. I
feel you, I feel your heart and I’m no longer there. I’m here with you.”
We got married. We lived happily. He was away from
three weeks so his time at home was a celebration. A holiday from real life. We
spent hours wrapped up in ourselves, seldom venturing outside our front door.
We were overwhelmed with joy when I found out we were expecting.
Life changed when Olivia came along. We no longer had
unreserved time alone. In order to sustain our connection, we promised to keep
writing love letters to one another. I would find them in the bread box, a
cereal carton, or under my pillow after he’d gone back to work.
I placed my letters in his suitcase, in the glove box
of his truck, in his laptop case. I wrote my thoughts of motherhood, my dreams,
my hopes and always my love. His letters were filled with memories of our times
together, of longing and of regrets that he was so far away.
Our second child, Daniel, came along and life moved
forward at breakneck speed. Tough words began to creep into our world, harsh
words that ripped at our love and picked holes in our hearts. Life outside of
our world looked greener for the first time since we found each other. He was
no longer eager to come through the door, no longer aching to wrap his arms
around me and draw me deep into his heart.
We grew apart and the love letters became less and
less frequent until they stopped completely. I no longer missed them, and anger
brewed in the places they used to be. I found myself alone with the duties of a
single mom, holding tiny hands and kissing skinned knees. I forgot how to be a wife;
I was only a mother. The world slipped from its axis and skewed my view of my
future.
Seven years - seven long years we were together. We’d
had our ups and our downs and brought two souls into the world when with pen in
hand I wrote one last love letter to him. I signed my name to the bottom of the
divorce decree, shedding not one tear. I was incapable of feeling, my heart a
block of ice, frozen from being on the far side of the sun for too long.
“It’s the seven year itch,” everyone said. “It happens
all the time - you either survive it or it survives you.”
He moved on with his new love and I forgot his name.
Olivia and Daniel were my world and I wrote love letters to them every day. I
watched the sun as it rose every morning with a promise and a prayer. I watched
the sun set at the end of another weary day, stripping me of the hope that used
to be mine.
I found an old love letter today. It was in the bottom
of the junk drawer, where tiny screws and twist ties go to die. I opened it, my
heart tripping along at an unnatural beat. There was no date, just the words of
a love song, spilling beauty onto a white page. The words swirled into my
frozen chest and shattered the icicles and my soul began breathing anew.
Hugging that precious piece of paper, I felt the
stirrings of romance sweep the cobwebs of apathy from the inside of my soul and
as I spun around, the world righted itself on its axis and I inhaled life deep
into my lungs. I was ready to stand on the battlefield of love - to live once
more the words of a love song.
