Let Me Go
I want to be kind. I want love, like everyone else. But I am stuck inside this prison, with someone who is relentlessly driving me insane, constantly walking in on my important train of thought, monitoring my every move, wanting to know what is going on at all times, what I am saying to our son, how I word my request for doctor’s appointments, whether we need chives — do I really need two separate cans of Hunt’s tomato sauce when the one 16-oz. will do?, questioning everything I say, as if I am the witness to the prosecution, instead of a wife. At least, he doesn’t beat me, I tell myself, as I wish with all my might in the perilous moment that he would just leave me the fuck alone for five fucking goddamned minutes is that alright?! I’ve considered leaving him, pre- and post-COVID. But where would I go, what would I do? I’m locked in, 30 years on Dec. 1. I gave up everything to chase the American dream, when what I really wanted, if I were strong enough to stand on my own, was a little space for myself, where I can read, write, and help others, staying in the background. I dream — when I’m not interrupted over trivialities, and to assuage bruised egos (men can be so needy) — of coming home, throwing off my work clothes, a shower, my soft blue bathrobe, open all the windows, a bowl of Apple Jacks, listening to the rain outside, drifting, drifting off by myself, as the TV plays cooking shows.
I feel utterly alone tonight.
The sunshine beckoned me outside, safe within my rabbit hutch fence, where I pretended I was young and free. Feeling fat, fated to die from the actions of old, white men I will never see. (But I hear the weather’s nice.) Will I ever see lilacs in bloom again? One more spring, she asks, greedily slurping another jumbo-sized iced Coca-Cola.
There is nowhere to run in this open plan. The man I married roams from room to room, doing the important business of keeping us safe, vaguely there is also love — on another frequency, somewhere between Seattle and a now-defunct Maui bar & grill, where they played live jazz on the weekends. Only in hindsight, do I feel something besides mild annoyance, to be bothered on this rare, sunny October, days before the trick or treaters, the riots, the second wave of dark winter, the winter of our discontent.
Somewhere inside me is the key to unlock this despair. I watch a little girl run through a field, chasing birds and bees, unafraid.
It’s okay to trip-
-he’s back. I must go.
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Originally published at https://carolbankswebercoggie.wordpress.com on October 30, 2020.