Divorce

One of my oldest and dearest friends noted that I haven’t written about my divorce, even though this blog is ostensibly about my inner workings. He’s right, of course. The truth is, I have no words. None at all.

I am the refugee standing before the rubble of his bombed and burned out home (never mind...for the moment...that I was one of the bomb-throwers). Silence is the province of every shell-shocked refugee. My eyes are those of a man who has lost everything. We’ve all seen the visages of the victims in Darfur, Kosovo, Kabul, the Pakistan earthquake, the Indonesian tsunami, New Orleans (dear Lord, the list is endless). We’ve all seen their eyes, and their eyes reveal nothing...only shock. There are no tears, no signs of anger. There is nothing. The eyes are lifeless, revealing nothing. We see only the vacant stares of the lost and homeless. My eyes are like that, and they truly are the windows to my soul.

I suppose there may come a day when words will come. Not today, though, nor tomorrow. Not for a long, long while. I can only do what refugees do, what refugees have always done. Pick up, move on, gather bricks from rubble and build anew. Build a home...build a life...heal. That’s what refugees have done throughout history. That’s what I must do.

* * *

And so it goes...