I am sitting next to a mound of paper shreddings a yard tall, praying that it doesn't fall over and bury one of the cats before I can empty it into the extra large, kitchen glassware box sitting next to it. So many shredding scattered across the carpet that I'd clog the vacuum if I tried to clean them up.... One would think it was New Years!
A roll of bubble wrap that I've rewrapped is the size of a round tractor wheel, I kid you not! I must have been seriously angry when I packed to leave him!
He paid for all these moving supplies. I must have really run up a tab! He didn't complain. He stayed out of my way. After all, the sooner I left, the faster he could play house with his former student while her rich Swiss husband looked away.
Bitter? Who, me?! "Bitter" doesn't even touch the taste in my mouth! It's rich Swiss chocolate. "Bitter" does me about as much good as this mountain of paper shreddings and wheel of bubble wrap.
I've got to spit out "bitter" before I kill it with a Snickers bar, a dozen donuts, and a gallon of chocolate milk. Yeah, I might be able to do it, even with my post-bariatric stomach. I could take out my revenge on me for how destroyed I feel.
I made a huge mistake, after all....
When you get to be a certain age (62), you're not willing to risk it anymore because, should anything go wrong, the grief may make you physically ill. An argument leaves you with a pounding headache, a blood-pressure spike that could drop you to the floor with a cerebral hemorrhage.
There is such a thing as a broken heart and shredded paper and bubble wrap. But I guess that it's not my time to go. I'll survive if I cry these tears behind the lump in my throat.
And I'm spitting out "bitter" before it poisons me. "I love you" is a wish, not a promise.