That fight that we had just needed to be fought. The anger that spilled over when you are usually so contained. At last the whiff of honesty. You were wrong, but honest and that is something I can admire. I love you no less for it. I love you.
Wrong about me though. I am not the picture you have of me. I am not the sum of my body and my age. I am the person that you talk with late into the night. I am the passionate conversations. I am all the things we have said that have brought us together. I am my love of literature and my desire to paint. I am not the potential parent of children or the sagging into middle age. I am not my husband's property or my friends' keeper.
Still I am glad about the fight. Our fight. Our tiny moment of bare-faced honesty. It has put distance between us but we are not separated yet and this seems to me a positive step, something that we can grow from, some new life. A shoot when the rest of the tree had shrivelled and was almost spent.
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