It's been a week of mostly play and trying to stay cool in the sweltering heat. We stayed up late last night to head into our little downtown for the Yankee Homecoming finale, a weeklong town celebration ending with fireworks over the waterfront. We ate fried Oreos and bumped into friends who we hadn't seen in ages, and sat with them to ooh and ahh over the spectacle. It was sweet.
It's always a little awkward to tell people Alex and I are no longer together. There is this moment where their reaction is either to feel bad for you and try to cheer you up, or where they bump into their own discomfort and I find myself trying to make them feel better about the news. I've come to learn it's this odd way we navigate one another's grief, and how we haven't really been taught what to say or do, or how to simply hold or witness it. I remember getting similar sentiments when I had my miscarriage. The reactions were the same uncomfortable mix of pity and the bypass of cheery optimism. There's this way we all try to circumnavigate the grief for one another, which only makes it feel more present and real and less seen. It's been an interesting thing to observe in myself and others, and I'm still trying to figure out what the more skillful way is. I know we're all just trying to do our best.
This morning, the kids are still in bed past 10 (a total rarity), and so I'm sipping my iced coffee, thinking and writing in a quiet house. It's still feels strange at times that this is my life, yet I also can not imagine ever going back. I'm learning to anchor in what is simply mine.