No pause button, or reruns exist in real life. I can only give thanks my wife and I were gifted with a sequel to our movie, the recovery from our biggest fight.
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As I meander through the convoluted mazes of my mind, to this day, I still struggle to remember what exactly had been the dire catalyst for our explosive argument that morning, screeching at each other like pious Wall Street traders on the verge of another economic meltdown. We were probably grimacing over whose turn it was to wash the dishes, take out the trash; or, maybe worse: changing the little man’s diaper. So it reeked of a chamber in the pit of hell. In hindsight, who cares?
The one thing I do perfectly recall were her final words. “I’m leaving you and I’m not coming back!” Eight words that pierced, apportioning me into unequal pieces, as a sleek knife would do. The shouting had ceased after that, her tone had softened, become somewhat lethargic. She affected a defeated manner now redolent with nonchalance, beyond care. Her mind had been made up; it already didn’t matter anymore.
“Then go!” I retorted, foolishly. An absolute facade of my inner being present, my body language defying my angst—arms folded, taut neck, nostrils ballooning with each breath. “Go!” I shouted. “Who’s stopping you?” Words I would later come to regret.
She didn’t leave immediately. It took her a while to pack her necessities…
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She didn’t leave immediately. It took a while to pack her necessities—spectacles (check), a change of clothes (check), her makeup bag! (Check. I kid. I can now, since we’ve made up!) And last but not least, our boy.
As each second passed, I let another opportunity to rectify the situation lapse. Say something Banji! Anything! But amidst the jarring noise of the door as it slammed shut, accompanied by the wailings of a confused toddler, sadly awoken from his state of nirvana, “Daddy… Daddy…” I said nothing.
And as I sat there in the aftermath, a hapless soul in the middle of a hollow living room, glancing at my watch every other second, with all but a glass of Jack Daniels to befriend me, I almost shed a tear. Almost. “She’ll be back, won’t she?” I asked him. Jack, said nothing, as usual, just listened.
An hour passed, she hadn’t returned. One hour became two. Two turned into twenty four. That day ultimately turned to weeks. But as much as I wanted to, the man in me, somehow resisted the urge to reach out. After all, I was in the right, or so I supposed. Shouldn’t she should be the one begging me? No, I wouldn’t contact her, even if I were dying.
I felt the fatal crushing of my very soul, though I remained alive and breathing.
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Unbeknownst to me, I already was. Dying, that is. At the time of my death, I resembled not just an empty vessel, absent of physical life. But rather, I felt the fatal crushing of my very soul, though I remained alive and breathing.
I can’t think of another time in my life when I’ve experienced a greater degree of pain, than during this period of separation from my loved ones. Oftentimes, I remember how I stumbled across an old photo, like the selfie from a wedding. The little man resembling an angel, half asleep, cradled in her arms. I’m crouched in behind them over the back of the chair, arms wrapped around my beloved and the other earnestly clutching the phone; our mouths baring grins galore.
These pics would take me back to earlier times, the mornings my son would annoyingly pounce on me at 7 a.m., “Daddy!! Weetabix!! Daddy!!” And as much as I’d beseech her back then—“Please sort him out, babe, I beg!” a juxtaposing laugh and cry escaping me at the same time. “You know you’re better at this?”—In the moment they were gone I’d have given anything to be woken up by him in the morning again, even deliver to my boy the extra scoop of honey he so often craved, anything. Anything to feel his not-so-gentle tug on my goatee come 8 p.m. each night when I’d arduously attempted to rock him to sleep.
…as I press rewind to replay the fight scene from a bird’s eye view, I see myself doing things differently. I’ve held her hands now, softly, drawing her closer into me as I kiss her forehead—a sultry exchange.
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So, of course, as I press rewind to replay the fight scene from a bird’s eye view, I see myself doing things differently. I’ve held her hands now, softly, drawing her closer into me as I kiss her forehead—a sultry exchange. I find myself rekindling a long lost tongue of affection. “I love you,” I whisper in her left ear, and a little smile begins to crack like dawn as her cheeks redden in the heat of our exchange. “I’m sorry I’ve hurt you,” I’m saying, wiping away a salty droplet caught in the crevice of her eye “It’s all a misunderstanding. Baby, we can fix this?”
Dreams do come true for some, but sadly there’s no pause button, no rerun, in real life. I can only thank God there was a sequel to this movie. Things may happen to be a improved in the camp nowadays, fingers crossed, but even after a punctilious mending, a clay pot that was once broken will still display its cracks. War scars, evidence that we once partook in the battle.
And it’s a shame that we can often get caught up in winning the petty fights, so much so, that we lose sight of the ultimate war, the battle to save what’s actually important—our marriage, our home, our hearts.
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And it’s a shame that we can often get caught up in winning the petty fights, so much so, that we lose sight of the ultimate war, the battle to save what’s actually important—our marriage, our home, our hearts. Don’t be fooled, no marriage, no relationship for that matter, will always be a bed of roses. It takes hard work, grit, determination, and A LOT of self sacrificing to actually make things work.
More often than not though, pride, that narcissistic ego of ours, trumps it all. I’ll speak for myself.
Though, I’m gradually learning to let go of all the trivial brawls, the nonsensical arguments about my poor driving etiquette in the car on our way to church on a Sunday morning—the irony? It is crucial that I still speak my mind, that I still have my voice heard, bu there’s an appropriate time and a place for everything. The greatest lesson I’ve grasped is that I don’t necessarily always have to win anymore. Does it hurt? Of course it does. But my eyes are now focused on the greater prize.
Life throws enough punches to keep us sweating on a daily basis as it is—bills, debts, jobs. The list is endless.
So it’s okay, darling, I get it now. As much as you may still exasperate me with your avid attempts to touch the wheel as I drive, yelling “careful!” I’d rather have you in the passenger seat any day. Riding shotgun as we roam the rough terrains of life together—you and I, a tag team.
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