No air

After two and a half hours of laborious attention to detail there is a heavy silence in the room.  The voices have stilled.

I have just agreed to the final stipulation.

It is a heavy, vibrating space.  My mind blank and rustling in the breeze of the previous emotion; a shivering leaf in the moment before the heavens bear down.

My lawyer looks at me.  "Are you ok?"

"Yes," I answer with stolen breath.

She looks at Rooster.  "Are you ok?"

"Yeah," he says.

"Ok," her mouth moves.  And in a moment that lasts an eternity later I hear:

"It's done."

A giant, silent gavel slams down with thunderous finality sucking the oxygen out of the well-lit and sparsely decorated room.  Like a vacuum on the cavity of my body all breath is whipped from me; snatched like a baby in harm's way.

"It's done" echos through the remains; rattles in the cage of my heart; tells me to fuck off.

I can't breathe.  I fight tears.  Her face is kind, sorrow-filled.  Rooster is calm, enviously still.

I struggle to compose myself, busy myself with papers, a drink of water.  They begin to talk.  My eyes fill with salty tears.  I lose one down my hot cheek. Perhaps two.

I focus on their voices, the timbres, the syllables.  One, two, two, three, pause, etc.  Lilting noise keeps me anchored lest I fly away in a swirl of regret and pain and bullshit.

I can do this: I will not feel.

I will not.





  1. Don't really know what to say. Just wanted you to know I read your words and I am thinking of you.

  2. Oh, hon you're going to be ok. Sending lots of loving energy.

  3. I'm thinking about you. And sending mental strength your way.


  4. Oh. Very big hugs to you. I honor your writing, in letting us into these moments so viscerally.

  5. It's a big thing. I'm thinking of you, and hoping that as hard as this no doubt is, it is also a new beginning. I'm here pulling for you.