Today is the Jewish ghost of what was my wedding anniversary—which is to say, I was married on Lag B’Omer, a vaulted day in the Jewish calendar that occurs generally in mid-to-late May. In the long stretch between Passover and Shavuous, it is the one blessed day on which Jews can dance, get married, and otherwise make merry.
This week ushered in my first real ex-anniversary, the first one where I am actually Divorced. I didn’t know how I would feel about it, but I knew it would feel different from the few that have come before—these few awful and heartbreaking years of liminal space—not Married, not Not Married.
I made myself an iced coffee and sat in my robe outside, listening to birdsong and watching the world come to life. This is neither the jubilation nor the weeping of anniversaries past—it is a totally new experience. A slow-melt calm that says I’ve got you, the you and the I finally one.
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