Windows

I stood for hours in front of that fucking window.

Hours. 

The feel of the scratchy drape on that window is ingrained in my memory.  When I think about the little house on Crittenden, sometimes I think about all the long days and short nights I had when my ex-husband and I were gutting and renovating the place. 

But mostly, I think about that window. 

When he left, I was shocked...stupefied...stunned...Hadn't we just had the giant full Catholic Mass and three hundred of our closest friends and family for a night of dinner and dancing at one of the most iconic venues in Indianapolis?

Less than a month before he left, I had finally hung some wedding pictures up in the house. The night he left, I slept clutching one of those picture. It was of us driving away from the church in my dad's cherry red '66 E-Type. Me with my cherry red bridal bouquet held over my head in a sign of excitement and victory.

Tremendous.

I woke up the next morning with my mother on my couch and an impression on my cheek from where the frame rested overnight. 

After he left, I was dumbfounded. Convinced this aberration would have a different ending. Certain that if I just hoped hard enough and waited, he'd come back. 

It was that hope and that prayer that kept me up at night. Standing in front of that window watching cars drive down the street. 

Each time I'd start to see the beam of headlights, I'd look at the shape, hoping to see the long oval shaped beams of his car.

I was afraid to go to bed, certain that if I went to sleep I'd miss him and I'd miss my chance. Certain that if I was asleep, he'd drive by and not know that I was waiting for him. 

So in front of that window I stood. My nose rubbing up against the rough fabric, taking in it's soft musty scent. I would stand there and watch. Stand there and wait. Stand there and hope.

Stand there and hope that I wasn't missing my one chance to stop this crazy ride. Certain that if he would just drive by and see me, that all would be fixed, that we would be fixed, that my marriage would be fixed. 

I stood in that window. I stood and I stood and I stood. 

He never came. 

I stood there until I was about to collapse. I stood while I talked to my mother on the phone and denied that I was still standing there. I stood while I talked to my doctor and told him I was finally sleeping better. 

I stood and watched and waited and hoped and prayed. 

For nothing. 

He never drove by, never looked back. For all intents and purposes, I was in his rear-view from the moment he drove away on the night he left me. I could have stood forever and he would have never have returned. 

And a decade later I can say what happened is exactly what needed too...

But when I think about that timeframe in my life, what I remember is the scratchy fabric of that window. I think of standing there, watching headlights until I was ready to pass out. I remember the feel of the fabric on the tip of my nose and remember each time I looked for headlights like it was a divine sign. 

It never was.

It was just a window and they were just headlights. 

And I was just a sad lonely girl with a handful of recently shattered dreams and a window that she couldn't stop staring out of. 

As  life moves on and new pain replaces old and new humiliations trump old ones. I think about that little house on Crittenden. I think about that goddamn window. 

And I think "could I have spared myself?" 

The answer is no. I could not have spared myself. Standing at that window is ingrained because i also remember the first night I DIDN'T stand there. The first night I allowed myself to go to bed. And then the second and third. 

I remember how the first night felt. How much I wanted to stand at that window. How much I convinced myself that this was going to be the night. How I told myself out loud that I was no longer allowed to stand there. I locked myself in my own bedroom to keep myself from that window. 

And then three nights passed and I hadn't spent them all in front of that windows and four...suddenly a week...and then 10 days and soon I was leaving the little house on Crittenden. Suddenly, I no longer wished for headlights. Somewhere along the line, I gave up the dream and faced the reality. 

But when I remember the little house on Crittenden, I remember that window...and those nights. 

And then I marvel at how far I've actually come.