After we got married and the magic of the weekend settled into real life, my husband and I had to spend some time apart before we could come together again. I remember standing in front of the hotel that morning, life hitting me in the chest hard, with 2 separate cabs waiting and not wanting to have to say goodbye again. This time, it was different and I struggled. I gnawed on the inside of my cheek to stop tears from flowing. Somehow, the taste of blood before shedding a single tear was the better then showing emotion. We kissed goodbye and I just barely made it into the cab before I felt my heart burst. The cabbie asked in his scattered English, "your husband not coming ma'am?" In my broken mess, I begged him to talk about anything else. We talked about the impending heatwave that threatened Gotham's electrical grid for the first time that season all the way to Penn Station. He wished me well and said my husband was a lucky man. I over-tipped as I usually do... NYC cabbies are one of my favorite forms of people watching... But my ride home was lonely. It was awful. I knew that it was temporary just to tie up some loose ends, but it crippled me. Not in the sense that I became disabled from my day to day obligations. But just disenchanted with the current life. I wasn't the same. What do you do when half your heart is missing? I nursed this open wound in Asbury, during my so called mermaid mornings in suspended living. I wasn't sleeping much but felt comfort in the sea and sand. I took this photo in one of the bathrooms, bright and early, even before most of the joggers hit the boardwalk, eyes stinging from another sleepless night. With those days and nights blurry and behind me, I still find comfort in my city by the sea but differently. My heart is no longer missing and I'm carrying a piece of his.
Originally posted 8/8/14