The Mill: A Winter Pastoral (18)

Finally able to talk to other people. I must face the possibility of splitting up–a prospect alternating between agony and relief. We are imprisoned by our circumstances and our marriage. The more we struggle, the tighter the grip. I must let go–of the Mill, the farm, her, my child, my parents–to keep hold of myself. And since these are the essence of me, I must let go of myself, give up, admit defeat and laugh.

The forbidden concept: divorce. What if it did happen? I would be free and full of pain and beauty and strength, instead of being trapped and full of pain and ugliness and weakness.

Yesterday I looked at the broken mirror in the locker door at work and saw myself blank, open, empty, free. When I came home at 12:30 she was up washing dishes. We got too drunk to get upstairs to bed. When the baby napped this morning she seduced me. The smell of billy goat on my hands mixed with the smell of armpits and the sound of an Indian flute, our energy young, dancing, touch without touching.

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