I guess I was 2, but I don’t know I could have been 3 or possibly 1, I don’t know.
When people ask if I remember I tell them no, I was too young. I guess I’m lucky, that I don’t remember but that doesn’t mean I can’t feel. Just because I don’t remember doesn’t mean that I can’t feel it now.
And trust me I do feel. I feel it at night when I lie awake, tears dripping down my already wet cheeks. I feel it on my way home when I don’t know where I’m going. I feel it in the morning when I wake up in a different bed half the week. I feel it in my heart when I wish I could have a normal family.
I suppose I’m lucky I don’t remember but I still can feel the ache of divorce.
Sure I was only one, or two, maybe three, I’m not sure, they never told me. Sure my parents have both remarried, sure I don’t remember, sure they have never once fought that I can remember, but I can still ache. I can still cry myself to sleep wondering what happened. Maybe it is the wondering which keeps me up at night, maybe it is the not knowing that brings that salty wetness to my eyes. Perhaps that is why I cry, I don’t know, it’s hard to tell.
But in the end that little crack in my heart, that sliver of a brake, it will fade, and I will be stronger because of it. I don’t remember but I can feel, and maybe that feeling will go away, maybe it won’t, but I know it will make me stronger. I can dry the tears from my cheeks so all that is left is the after taste of salt on my lips and a redness to my eyes, I can dry my tears and I can feel, I can feel stronger.