If I Must Break

The morning I got divorced, my dad met me outside the courthouse with a half smile and a squeeze, “You’re happy, you just don’t know it yet.”

I had imagined that I would walk into the courtroom like J. Lo in some girl-power movie. I would stand with square shoulders and sharp eyes; dignified and articulate and lovely. But the truth is I could barely stand at all.

It felt so dreamlike, the last day. I sat in the windowless, too-cold courtroom and looked down at my knees. I wanted so badly not to care, or to feel it. But I did care. I did feel it. 

There would be no more arguments, no more long-winded explanations, no more apologies whispered from one pillow to another. There would be no more promises to never give up. I remembered his curls, his purple rice eyes, the vein that made a backslash across his forehead. I whispered, “I would have loved you forever.”

The judge asked me four questions. I said yes four times. He hit the gavel, and I signed my married name for the last time. And just like that, the war was over.

I’ve been trying to rinse these stories out of my eyes for a long time, to wrestle myself out from under this dense and dripping sadness. The truth is, when the war ended, I realized I had no home to go back to. My life was a strange and sinister place I had never been before; my own soul, a smeared oil painting.

I have spent a lot of time digging for a version of myself I can recognize. I have searched for clues in old text messages and photographs. I have looked into the eyes of every version of me I can remember, hoping to find one that feels like home, someone I can return to. 

I drove up the coast of California with my brother, where the road holds on tight to the side of the mountains. It was early spring and the flowers were opening one eye to see if the winter was over. We stopped at a lookout hundreds of feet above the water. The sun was waist-deep in the ocean, and all the chalk had been wiped off the sky. I was numb to the majesty of it all, and felt guilty for that. But I was angry. Nothing could be trusted. In a moment, it could all disappear and never return. 

We climbed out onto the cliff that jutted into the turquoise sea. There were wild orange succulents knit into the boulders, leaving their veiny trails over the rocks. I sat on the edge and looked down into the cove where the waves lined up to take their turns sliding into the shore, whiter than toothpaste foam.

As each wave smashed into the earth, mist exploded into the sun, becoming a cloud of rainbow vapor, all eight colors, glittering in the air for only a second. 

My eyes widened and I leaned forward. The angle of the water had to be just right, and the prism lasted only as long as a falling star. I was mesmerized by each wave hitting the rocks, shattering into ten billion gleaming pieces before falling back into one whole, finally reaching home.

The morning after I heard about the tumors in my body, I staggered down the stairs, gray-faced. My dad met me in the doorway to the kitchen with arms I fell into. He cradled my head and said, “You’ll always be my girl with the million dollar smile.” I pressed my head even deeper into his chest, and he said it again, “You’ll always be my girl with the million dollar smile.” 

I don’t know why that’s the first thing he said, but I think about it all the time.

I leaned back into the mountainside and closed my eyes, doing my best to pin the moment down in my memory somewhere it couldn’t be lost. The octopus arms of the wind swirled around me and it felt like I was levitating.

I wasn’t sure exactly who I was, or where or why or how. 

But I did know that I was alive and breathing, and that the grass was soft. 

If I must break, I thought, Maybe I can break like the waves. And if I am shattering, maybe it’s into ten billion gleaming pieces, only for a second. And soon I’ll fall back into one whole. Maybe the breaking means I’m finally reaching home.