Redbeard

Three years ago I met a man I thought was going to be the love of my life.  He was slightly older, dedicated, intelligent and he declared his love for me swift and often. He had a beard before I even knew I liked beards and ginger hair.

At first I wasn't even sure I could like him because I could barely see his eyelashes and his nine years senior was something I hadn't bargained for. But then he brought me a college sweatshirt to my library when I got into graduate school and made me tea in the morning. So I fell hard and slept in his bed most nights.

For a long time, things were good. Really good. There were trips and lots of laughs. People pulled me aside at parties, called me on the phone, sent emails; all to tell me that he was a keeper.  "He's the one you've been waiting for," they said. And I agreed with every inch of my being.

And then, at the start of a fresh new year, it ended. I came home on a Monday to find him still in sweatpants, his teeth unbrushed, some unremembered movie on the television. I hung up my coat, asked what we were doing for dinner and he responded with "We need to talk," started crying and broke my heart.

Within an hour the new luggage set my parents bought him was reclaimed with my dresses and shoes. Long forgotten mail, mismatched socks and granola bars I just purchased stuffed into a half dozen garbage bags. He refused to look at me and washed dishes in the kitchen.

Then there is long story of how I made my body forget him. How my winter was cold, my spring sad and how in summer I decides to let go. But the truth is that I haven't forgotten him. If I pause long enough, make the world quiet enough, I still smell him. I see the way he smiled at me when I was being emotionally ridiculous.

I love-hate that. Part of me never wants to forget that a person once loved me so completely. The other part of me wants to ship away the memories and start fresh. Even if means never feeling that way again.   Finding that feeling just doesn't happen easily. At least not for me, the girl who dates but rarely has a boyfriend. Not before, not after.

See, I'm celebrating birthday number 30 this week. It's been filled with flowers, lunches and dinners. There were gifts and Facebook messages.  But nothing from him.  I'm not foolish enough to be shocked. But I can't help but be disappointed that I mean so little.  Did he really forget our first unofficial first-date was campaigning for President Obama on my 27th birthday? Did he really forget that our 3rd year anniversary is this weekend? Because I just don't understand how a body can remove those things from memory.

If there is a secret, I'd love to know.