Roots, Intertwined, Cleaved in Two

axis mundi by Mathieu Struck

A part of this grief is the loss of who I used to be. There is a part of me that died with Wendy. It is the part of me she kept.

I don't mean this in a gooey Hallmark sort of way, but rather metaphysically. When two people really fall in love, they let down those partitions that contain their identity. Those identities meet and merge and intertwine. We were like two independent trees with tangled roots.

I thought about this while reviewing some recordings Wendy and I made together in 2005. We had gotten a digital audio recorder and started recording brainstorming meetings. Sometimes we'd record just hanging out together.

I'm reminded that we had a language all our own, as I'm sure all couples who live together must have. It was a way of speaking. Now, because I have no one with which to share that language, it's dying inside me.

It's like the phantom limb syndrome that some amputees have. A part of your mind is convinced that your leg is still there even though the rest of your mind knows it is lost.

But there is a trade off in all of this. Even though she left with part of me, she left part of her behind. So that's what I'm working on right now: finding satisfaction with the part of her she left behind in me.