Listen;

I waited in line to see a psychic. Two women sat at a table; one inspecting palms and the other sliding her hands across the surface of tarot cards. I’ve never been to a psychic or palm reader, but in this case it was free and I thought it worth a shot. As the chair in front of the palm reader vacated, I filled its place. She took my hand, asked about my necklace, misread that my grandmother was dead. Misread my interests. Misread many things. It’s funny, because you can be completely wrong and follow it up with “well you/it will be”. “You wear rubber boots”, “No”, “Well you will”. “You garden?”, “No”, “Oh, you will”. “Your grandmother is deceased?”, “No”, “She will, though. In the future”. 

She looked on my love line. She asked if I was single. Yes. Are you in a break-up. Yes.

“Ex’s are ex’s for a reason” she proclaims as she runs her fingertip along the crease in my palm. It’s only a crease, but she is treating it like braille.

“He lied to you. It was wrong of him.”

“I broke up with her” I rapidly reply. And in my mind, I know I’m wasting my time with this fraud. “It wasn’t her fault”. 

But she goes on and on talking of this “him” and his “lies” and how “ex’s are ex’s for a reason”. 

I leave her after she insists I will live in the country, with a chicken coop and a painting studio that smells of gesso and gardens to tend along the front of the house in my rubber boots. She assures me that I am a better artist than I give myself credit for. The again, she is adamant that I lived with a smoker. 

I feel sort of annoyed by the whole experience. But her words “ex’s are ex’s for a reason” keeps playing in my head. And as it rings, I’m not finding the reasons as the sound reverberates within me. I know my reasoning, but overall I feel very empty without having her and knowing we are as we were.

When I got back for the night, I cleaned the dishes and the counters and played “Baby I Got The Death Rattle” and wanting to believe the words in it and not. I wasn’t ready to get rid of the necktie on the metal bed frame. I wasn’t a complete ass, bray and all. I hadn’t given up and put it all to the past. It would have made more sense in my situation, but I felt none of it. I went to bed, realizing that maybe I was wrong. 

It took me a bit of time, about a week, to make a bit more sense of my feelings and decide what I really wanted to do. After a good amount of talking, sobbing turned into sheer joy in realizing there was hope. I realized that maybe we can still have each other just as before, but now with a better understanding. I think my fear drove me to make the decision to break-up but in the end that really wasn’t what I wanted. 

I promise; I will fight. I may not have as much love as I’d hope to give but I’ll give it all.  And if it grows again, I will be so happy. But right now I’m glad. It took a week of me being miserable and plenty of hot tears and an empty tissue box to get where we are now, but I’m relieved. I’m so much more happy trying rather than accepting my fleeting.