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Show C H R Y S A L I S PAGE 193 understand. For a minute I think he will wake and say something. . .but he takes a deep breath and sleeps on. He doesn't even know I'm here. Taking my pillow, I put my hand to the door and close it softly after me. I will sleep on the couch until he apologises. I sleep on the couch for four nights, and nothing is said between either of us. Then it is over. My fingers aren't broken after all. Nor is my heart. And that is all there is to it. I decide not to be angry. Anger is something I can control. I take all the anger, all my guilts, my fears, failures, and frustrations, mentally wrap them together in a tight bundle and flush them down the John with the tennis ball. It helps. I feel better. I settle, quite comfortably, for accepting myself just as I am, neither God nor Wonderwoman, but a normal, healthy (as far as I know) human being a little lower than an angel. Whoever said it was going to be roses all the way? Peace. OM. |