Last weekend as I mowed, I spotted The Boy's dog standing knee high in a large patch of clover growing in our yard. I smiled because she seemed so utterly content in that moment.
I pushed the lawn mower up and down the long strip between the yard and the woods, utterly content in that moment.
Earlier, while nosing around in the front yard to determine what needed to be grass and what needed to be given back to the woods, I discovered an enchanted area in the front corner of my yard. Thick green moss, curly ferns, a few patches of low-growing wildflowers. I could've sworn I saw a faery flit by.
Sometimes I believe I've ended up with everything she ever wanted. I'm certain she resents me for it. She shouldn't. I take no pleasure in it. In fact, I feel guilty, especially in the moments when that very thought is the only thing that allows me to forgive her.
The strain between us is apparent in so many conversations, heavy words left unsaid. Sometimes I think it would be easier if we didn't speak at all, but I want very much to do the right thing so I bite my tongue and dance around the elephants, determined not to ask for apologies she has never felt it necessary to offer.
Meanwhile my home sits knee high in the clover, nestled among enchanted woods while what's left of hers is still precariously perched in a field of prickly weeds. I struggle to not give into the notion that there is no need for me to feel guilty for all that I have that she lacks because perhaps I am simply the better person and more worthy. I do not ever want to place myself above her for our sins may be different, but they all weigh the same.