Solitude

I'll always regret the day I destroyed you, but I was too old and you were never meant to be. I was in that changing time of life, my body caught up in some wishy-washy scenario, so foreign to its usual fine-tuned regimentation. It was constantly shifting, almost militant in its unpredictability, as it dragged out the frenzy of losing its ability to recreate, refusing to surrender, without a fight. I knew what was happening, took double precautions, and vowed not to get fooled by its tactics. Somehow, I still got trapped in its seemingly innocent deception.

When I learned of your existence, I was angry, with me, with him, even with you and had no desire, none, to hold on to you. I refused to cave into my body's bullying determination to force me into one more submission. I was too old, too selfish and too impatient to replay that worn out tune. I was enjoying my life; happy I could finally put my self first.

Not him. He was ecstatic, not too impatient, too selfish, too worn out to have a last fling with my fading fertility.

"Fantastic," he said, loving the possibility.

I stared at him. Had he forgotten our long ago decision, the one we had agreed on when we never dreamed we would have to? It was so easy for him, I thought. It's my body, my mind and my soul that were going to be stretched to the very limits of their being.

"Have you forgotten our decision?" I asked, trying hard not to hate him.

"That was long ago," he said, "so long ago. Things change. Isn't there room for discussion?"

"No." I heard him sigh; saw the look in his eyes, struggled to hold on to my position.

But his words kept haunting me as I went through my emotional upheaval of determining your fate. Somewhere among the anger, the sadness, the frustration, and the madness of it all, an occasional tiny, flimsy, tinge of joy stirred my heart, slipped in and out of my memory, only to be snuffed out quickly, by my emerging practicality.

I told him my decision . . . our decision and saw sadness coat his eyes. For an instant, I wanted to change my mind, to scrape away his sorrow, but only for an instant. My need to free myself was greater then his pain.

He seemed to understand, to accept, pressing his body close to mine, so close I could feel his heart grieving, for you, not me, causing me to almost change my mind, again.

I kept almost changing my mind right up to the time, and then wondered if I was damming my soul to hell.

I sit on the beach writing, not about you, about him. The day is almost as perfect as the day I made my decision. The hot sun toasts my bare arms and legs and the endless water of the ocean ripples in continuous waves against the break wall, gently slapping the bald rocks with wetness. The beach is vacant, my soul is empty and my writing is silent, without words. Tears flood my eyes, spill down my cheeks and my mind is filled only with thoughts of him. I wonder where he is, how he's doing, if he's still grieving over . . . you? Has he found someone new? Does he ever think of me? Does he hate me still?

This is my last visit to the beach. I will not come again. I've grieved long enough, for him and for you. It's time to put it behind me. I shake off the sand, pick up my tools and walk away from the seductive water. The waves slap the rocks louder like they're trying to get my attention. I ignore them. I don't look back; just keeping walking toward . . . I don't know where.