talonkarrde | The Elephant in the Room

We used to know exactly the right thing to say to each other when something was wrong. We still do, I think, but we just don't say it anymore.

Maybe that's what losing her did to us.

It always starts with something small, something inconsequential. An ambiguous statement, a throwaway comment that could be dismissed but isn't. Picking at a scab, not quite healed over — "honey, where did you put the checkbook, again?" — with just a shade too much emphasis on the 'again'. As if I meant to hide it from her.

Both of us are proud, and perhaps too quick to take offense. It never used to be a problem, but now, we read into statements that should be casual, innocuous, and we find in them the glimmer of cruelty that is a slap in the face, a punch in the gut, an invitation to battle.

Neither of us could ever resist the temptation to win an argument. We were known for it, known for our skill in seeing the flaws in our opponents, for the clever way we dissected what they said. But in this case, winning means making comments that we always regret in the morning. Winning means hurting the person you love the most.

And yet, we still can't resist.

It turns into something bigger, as a comment demands a retort and the return salvo must always be harsher, stronger, more pointed. "Not yet, but did you pay the cable bill yet? Or—" And every time I wish I could hold back, bite my tongue, just let it blow by for once, and then it comes out anyway— "Or did you spend what we made this month on those cute dresses, again?"

Even as I say it, I know that this isn't what I mean, but I can't stop. Not this time, not the last time. Not ever, perhaps. And even before I finish, I know she's just waiting to plunge her daggers where she knows they'll do the most damage, and I know that she doesn't mean it. Or at least, she won't in the morning.

But it still hurts, and for now, our anger is the only way we can respond to the pain.

It escalates still, and we put fists into walls and shatter dishes and trot out the list of wrongs each has committed. Never do we hurt each other physically; no, we learned long ago that our words do more damage, and leave less of a mark.

We yell at each other from different rooms, destroy things we bought together and loved, and never, ever, ever mention the girl that we lost, before she ever got a chance to say mama and daddy.

Parents should never have to bury their children.

Finally, we run out of words; we stand, two weary souls on the battlefield that is our home, we think of her, the only person we've ever loved more than each other, and we are silent.

And then we start the rebuilding.

I mumble about buying the spackle, she mutters about seeing what she can do about replacing the dishes, and even though we don't say much as we clean up our mess, as we recover on the outside and on the inside, I know we're thinking the same thing.

When we sleep, she curls up into me and we sob silently together, still never saying a word about her, about how much it hurts to be without her, but we grieve together now, instead of apart.

-

Tomorrow comes soon enough, and perhaps we'll fight again, but for tonight, at the end of the day, we are still together, grateful for each other’s presence. Perhaps with enough tomorrows, we'll learn to hold back, we'll stop destroying what we rebuild, and we'll be able to talk about the past.

And many tomorrows after that, perhaps we’ll be able to once again look to the future.