From My Closet Floor to a Sunset Drive

Kelvin was talking to me.

I looked down at the message on my phone and turned around, no longer hearing the words that were coming out of his mouth.

“I don’t think I’m OK,” I said. I felt like my world was starting to spin.

The color must have drained from my face because he encouraged me to sit down. My knees felt weak as I sat down right where I was, and then, as my phone vibrated with yet another message, I fell apart on the closet floor.

He knelt down next to me and held me as I sobbed, handing me tissues as the pile of used tissues grew.

Something had unlocked a dam inside of me. A person from my past had reached out to start a conversation and I wasn’t sure where the conversation was headed. It was someone I had once longed to hear from. Our friendship had ended so abruptly, without an explanation. I felt excommunicated all over again, triggering a deep wound I didn’t realize that I still had.

I had chosen to forgive and let go, and yet the very name of this individual reminded me of everything that had hurt me behind closed doors. The confusion, the mockery, the broken promises, and the stabs in my back that came from a specific circle of people. My memories also reminded me of my own mistakes. I thought about how selfishly I’d acted and the things I did that shame still tried to taunt me with. The hurt felt like a knife reopening an old wound of rejection, stirring up my fears that Kelvin could one day reject me too.

Slowly the tears ceased.

I felt completely empty. I was no longer hungry and no longer felt like going out on our date that I was going to get ready for. Kelvin kept holding me and asked me about what else I was feeling.

I’ve never known a man who can hold space so beautifully for my falling-apart-moments but he does. The closet became a sacred place of knowing and being known as I lifted my puffy eyes to look into his, coming face to face with gentle love.

I needed a drink of water.

He invited me on a drive and so we left, me with my giant red puffy face and he holding my hand as he drove. The sun began to set, painting the skies with bands of pastel color.

I admitted that I might be a little bit hungry after all. Instead of the two of us going into a restaurant, Kelvin ran in to pick up an order of miso soup and some of our favorite Japanese food, freshly made onigiri.

We ended up at a park where I used to take my daughter when I first lived in Denver. Babi Yar Park. It’s also a memorial for Jews who experienced the horrors of the Babi Yar concentration camp in Ukraine during World War II.

We walked slowly through the park as the final bands of light faded from the sky. The sound of sprinklers scared us out of our contemplative mood and we ran down the trail laughing, to get away from the spraying water. We sat in a circle of trees and grew quiet again, before Kelvin stood up and wordlessly pulled me into a slow dance.

A soft glow of light fell around us. We thought we were dancing under the light of the rising moon until we looked and saw that it was just a tall street light at the edge of the park. We giggled and kept dancing.

I leaned my head against Kelvin’s chest and let his strong arms cradle me. Safe. Loved. Together. I let out a sigh that released years of dusty old pains from broken love stories, and breathed in the smell of the dew that was settling on the grass around us.

We walked back to the minivan (yep, that’s what we drive as a family of 7!) and Kelvin opened up the trunk. We sat on the floor of the van trunk to drink our miso soup in the dusk. We looked out at the night sky while we sipped and talked.

As I savored the rich flavors layered on top of each other, I imagined the gardens where the ingredients grew. I pictured the gentle hands that prepared the food we were enjoying. I closed my eyes when I took bites of the onigiri because it was just that good. I listened to the sound of Kelvin’s voice, as soothing to my soul as the warm miso soup that I was cradling in my hands.

I was fully present. Fully appreciating the goodness of the moment.

This evening was making me so grateful to be alive.

Everything belongs in the process this journey, from the brutal pain of facing our deepest wounds, to the funny inside jokes we share, to dancing in the park NOT under the light of the moon, and sitting in the trunk of a minivan at dusk to nibble on Japanese onigiri.

I’m constantly learning that true love holds space for everything and makes me strong. I’m not afraid to be vulnerable anymore, to let myself be fully seen and known, because it’s safe here.