I have recently joined an organization which randomly pairs you with another person from the blogosphere so that you can write on their blog under an assigned topic for each month. No, this is not a cult. It is actually quite cool, you'll see.
I was selected to post on Kara's website at http://chowschatter.wordpress.com so that's where my post will be lurking for those of you who enjoy my writing. You sick, sick, people, you.
The following entry comes from my Bloggerstock cohort for this month - Essie. After reading the following entry, head over here - http://lochessmonster.blogspot.com/ to read more from her. You won't regret it. I promise.
The Story of what's on my desk
This is the true story of what’s on my desk:
A PC. My husband bought it at Incredible Connection before I took all his money in the divorce. And also his PC. And his desk.
Divorce is awesome.
But I thought that I should aim for at least a few more words and something at least remotely interesting so I tried to lure a mythical creature onto the desk with a bowl of cream (no really – read Bryan Froud, that’s how you do it).
In all seriousness, I suppose the only thing that stood out for me when looking at that plain pine desk was what WASN’T on there: our wedding picture. It used to balance precariously between the pens and books and dead minitiature potplants. In the months after our separation we delicately started removing the photographs, but it doesn’t really help. You still see them in the spaces where they’re not.
Of course, the whole dance of marriage is so bizarre, I don’t really blame either of us for figuring out the steps. I remember feeling somewhat pissed off at the tiny, plain piece of paper the pastor handed us. I expected gilt edges and curliques – not a scrap of office paper with handwritten details and crude signatures. Thinking back that is probably symbolic of the whole thing – a watered down but weightier version of what you hope for.
There ARE still elements of him on the desk. A heavy stone I picked up in a mine in Kimberley and brought home for him to use as a paperweight. A plastic bunny we got in cereal box. A ceramic fairy we bought on honeymoon. A pen he had stolen from me that I stole back.
Whatever we are to one another now, wherever we live – you never really separate from one another. You become part of each other’s stories, even if your lives split in two. Despite everything that happened I do like that a part of him is always in the back of my mind and even on top of my desk.
PS. But I’m not giving it back.