verge (vʉrj)
the edge, brink, or margin (of something): also used figuratively the verge of the forest, on the verge of hysteria

to tend or incline (to or toward)
to be in the process of change or transition into something else; pass gradually (into) dawn verging into daylight

Friday, August 12, 2011

A Goodbye

It's been two years--already.

Two years since I started Verging my day to day.

A beginning that started at an ending, the Verge has given me great comfort, friends, and joy.  The Verge has been my tree house of words and observations--a place to climb to and whisper, or to lay back and watch the wind sway the trunk against a firm blue sky.  Verging has marked the rest stops along the way and provided me with mile markers, each one pointing out what's Right Here, and Right Now.

But last night...

Last night I had a vivid dream and you were in it.  We happily spoke. So happily. I was  grateful-joyful about that chance.  It had been two years since your sudden departure.  I knew this in the dream--and so did you.  In this bizarre chance meeting, you told me about your life since then, and I told you about mine.  I was happy for you--you were happy for me.  No knots.

When I woke, I was crying, my face damp with silent and urgent tears.  I was startled by it.  Startled, again. It's as if they were nudging me to say so.  To say these things. To write these things.... tell you.

We never really said goodbye.  It happened so fast and abruptly.  You didn't want to prolong the ending--and I just wanted one more conversation.  I just wanted to catch my breath, to think, to talk, to grasp it. But at your wish, our parting was absolute.  Final.  One shot, a clean cut. To a large extent, you were right.  It might have dragged on, yes.  I can see that.  And you were always the wiser about hard things. But then you vanished into the commuter crowd as you boarded the train--suddenly absorbed into a memory--forever. And I stood near the platform unable to breathe.

As you can see (and I don't even know if you know about the Verge), life has gone on here.  And very well.  I couldn't have a more beautiful life today.  I don't say that in a ha-ha-ha way..but more as a sort of Aha. An aha to myself. Life has gone on. The girls--amazing.  My family, close.  I love (adore) my job and my friends.  I have a dog now.  I still meditate.  And knit.

But there is a little piece of me still standing on the train platform, waiting.

Waiting for what, I didn't know. Until last night.  My dream....

My dream was no accident.  When I woke this morning, I checked--it was two years ago to the day.  It has been two years of silence.  Two years of letting go.  Two years of never hearing your voice again. Two years of silently saying goodbye to you alone in my head, morning (mourning) after morning (mourning)...after morning (mourning).

It's not that I have regrets or miss you.  But I miss that we never spoke again. If we had just been able to talk through our ending as thoughtfully as we had talked through our beginning, I would have acknowledged my shortcomings. I would have asked to light a candle and to share a poem. I would have asked for a more gentle landing--a compassionate farewell, and I would have said thank you.  I would have held your hand and said goodbye, but slowly.  And bravely. Do you still have pain?  I hope you don't.  How is your mother?  Are you healthy? Do you still pray before breakfast?  Are you happy?

I had planned to wrap up the Verge for good after two years.  I've said that out loud several times to several people.  My life is wonderfully and chaotically routine.  Sometimes I think putting words to it diminishes the preciousness of my experience.  But two years is long enough.

So here it is.  It's time.  With this post I have reached a conclusion. I've said all that I needed to say here.
I am letting you go, finally, on my terms, as I've needed to do for so long. I've needed to say these words out loud. I've needed to put the period at the end of your sentence.

But The Verge will go on.  I have new things to write about. Plus, I love writing. I have a home in this virtual tree house. But instead of writing my way from that train platform, I will be writing my way forward, a bit freer, a bit more settled.  Two years is indeed long enough.  Period.

Buckle your seat belt, Mercy.  We're going for a ride.  


  1. I held my breath as I read your post. I thought maybe you were saying good bye to us. But you aren' thank you.
    It was a hard post to read to think about how your marriage ended so abruptly. I am not sure how you have gone on and created such a beautiful life for yourself but you have. One of my girl friends has just had a break up and I wonder where do this man think he is going to find someone more wonderful than her? I feel that way about you. You look at the world in way that makes me realize that I am often missing the beauty all around me.
    I look forward to you next post!!
    May peace be with you going forward.

  2. thank you, erin. i appreciate your comments. though we weren't married, it was a quite a relationship.

  3. Alice Dearheart - I think you've found the answer to your own wish - you couldn't have done it then - then you were left on the platform - you've made your own launching pad for now. Nothing could have been said then that could have made the ripping apart gentle. The wish is for now - the gentleness and peace of now for each of you. Loving Kindness at its best. You are a wonder.

  4. Oh my, Alice. Thank God you haven't said goodbye to us and thank God you are free to say farewell to the weight of the unfinished.

  5. You've captured the pain of ambiguous loss and you've done it with your usual elegance. I hope you and Mercy have a great ride.