I slept in this morning, which is a luxury my new “home” now allows me to afford. My walk to work, though shorter, is still long enough to justify listening to my iPod and, with my carefully selected songs in hand and ear, I can feel, at least for five minutes of the day, like I’m caught in a movie’s musical interlude that suggests both whimsy and the promise of things to come. I’m getting ahead of myself here.
This morning’s walk to work was serenaded by Dar Williams’ “As Cool As I Am,” a song, which, embarrassingly, I still don’t think I quite understand (maybe Ms. Parker could help me out here?), and yet which feels relevant nonetheless. But as I turned each corner on my way to my office home, my thoughts were not of her lyrics or the joys one feels when a short walking commute to work means saving gas money, but rather of how and why I came to be spending my work day mornings alone.
As all four of you know, it’s been over three years since I was first introduced to Freckles and subsequently introduced her to you. I did so in a carefully crafted entry on carpooling, which I’m not entirely sure even the most faithful readers of mine would recall if I didn’t link to it here.
I think it’s safe to say that my readers quickly caught on to my love for Freckles. Maybe it was the sudden lack of blogging on my part (as Sarah the L knows, writer’s block is the consequence of happiness and falling in love), or maybe it was the fact that I beat my readers over the head with our whirlwind romance. Whatever the case, I was happy and everyone knew it.
But as is sadly the case in life, people change, things change, relationships change, love changes, and Freckles and I found ourselves on opposite ends of our relationship’s spectrum. One of us believed in us, and the other didn’t anymore. One of us felt heartache for hurting a loved one, the other for being hurt. Both of us were terrified of losing a loved one. And so it was last week that I found myself with packed boxes, bags, and Othello in hand, failing miserably at settling into my parents’ guest bedroom.
The day that I officially moved out of the apartment that Freckles and I had turned into a home, the rains poured harder than they had all summer. With no end in sight, I was forced to load the final items into my car while unable to dodge the raindrops. Three years ago, I described such a rainstorm as something “placed perfectly between miserable and pretty.” This past week, it felt more like melancholy drowning in heartache.
A day later, as the rains stopped, the sun came out, and the inevitable rainbow appeared in the sky. We’re shedding tears of sorrow, but at least the world is still hopeful. And I think of all the great times Freckles and I had together, and the love that we had, and the sadness we felt the last time we saw each other. But that I’ll save just for me.
Benchly'sword 
I see now why the girls night out was so necessary, and I’m really sorry I slept through it.All I have to offer is an ear attached to someone with lots of experience with big relationship breakups.
It appears to me that you have simplified your relationship with freckles to a simple “finding ourselves on the opposite end of the relationship” . How did this happen when in June you wrote of the future and marriage and children??? I suddenly feel that I am in a romance novel and no longer are you speaking with realness about relationship. It is teenage angst and not someone who truly loved and worked at relationship . The charm of your writing has always been the realness of it. This blog was too fictionalized for me.
You’re right, it was way too simplified. I was stuck. I wanted to be true to the relationship and acknowledge what was happening, but without providing intimate details that I felt were inappropriate to discuss in a blog. It was a matter of respect for Freckles and for my relationship with her. If my writing suffered for the sake of privacy and respect, so be it. I’ve shared my feelings with Freckles in a private setting and that’s the only thing that really matters.As for how it compares to the rest of my writing, of course it feels fake. It’s easy to describe happiness because when you’re happy, there’s hardly ever anything that requires literary restraint. In contrast, when you’re withholding private details of a break-up, it’s almost impossible to do your heartache justice.I’m sorry to let you down. In this instance, words won’t ever do my feelings justice.