Sunday, December 6, 2015

If No One Has Told You: You're Worth A Sunday Kind Of Love

My best friend Blue always asks, “What about the good things?”

I’m always apt to ignore her. I want to focus on the negative after something disseminates. I suffer from anxiety, and I’ve convinced myself that over analyzing and ruminating, will cure whatever I’m feeling.

Clearly, I’m wrong.

She’s right. There were good things, particularly on Sundays.

I lived with my ex-boyfriend, for almost three years. We reserved the seventh day, of the week, to spend time with one another. (We also went to church, on a few of those Sundays. I swear.)

We also seemed to have our most difficult discussions on these days. Although we’d both tell you that it was coincidence, it probably wasn’t.

I told him that I didn’t love him anymore, on a Sunday.
He said that he lost his job, on a Sunday.
We decided that it was best that we spend time apart, on a Sunday.

Considering this was the day we both cleared our schedules, we probably both realized that it was easier to argue, make-up, and analyze our issues when nothing was in the way.

Again, here I go focusing on the negative.

I could sit here and tell you about our most infamous fight. He was so angry about some catty statements, which were well deserved, that he managed to lift our coffee table and cast it to the other side of the room. I’d never seen him this upset; I was terrified. A few hours later, we were both incredibly apologetic. We worked things out while I used my fingers to unravel my box braids. After the last word, of our disagreement, he said, “Go and get me a comb, please.”

For the next few hours, I sat between his legs while he helped me take my braids out one by one. We caught up on Netflix shows, guffawed at how long my Afro had grown, and kissed, whenever he bent down for one.

After he had been laid off, I took the entire weekend off. I remember trying to make him forget, for a while. We devoured ice cream while walking through Park Slope, spent the sunset in the shelves of his favorite comic book store, and didn’t utter a word about the upcoming struggle.

Even after it was over, he’d call to check on me. I knew he was e-stalking me, even though we’d unfollowed each other on everything. Every time I posted something sad or distant, he would send me a text. Whenever he saw something that would peak my interest he sent it to me, no matter our current predicament.

The love was still apparent. It was strewn through the letters of his texts and in his tone. It was in his eyes, every time he looked at me and in the urgency of our ‘next times.’

When we were in love…madly in it…we were an Etta James song.

No matter how challenging our week was we always made it to our seventh day, with a solution.

This is the good that I remember.

I wrap myself, in it, whenever I am dealing with the current idiots in the dating world.  I swathe in the memories when the nights are feeling lonely, and I forget that someone is going to love me more impeccably, one day. I close my eyes, sometimes, when I’m walking in solemn, knowing that this pavement once knew an unbreakable union.

We forget the good things because sometimes they’re more painful than the serious stuff. It’s easier to tear the paper when it’s separated and flimsy. However, a paper that’s been folded over and over, like solidified reminiscing, is harder to break apart. It’s hard to analyze because there is no underlying notion there. It’s genuine, real, and warm.

We should make our journal pages this way, difficult to tear. We are prone to slash ink in hurtful ways, but there’s so much power in scribing our happiness. It’ll be difficult to tear away things that are righteous and whole. It'll be difficult to discard the parts of you, that are creased into your heart forever.

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