By Sophira Bradford
“I miss those days.”
I stared at the words under the picture, next to a name that had formed as an expletive in my mind.
Here I was ten years ago, happy and smiling with the two people I loved most, once.
Facebook had a way of keeping you connected, even when it was ugly. Some friends we still shared, we were both connected to in this horrific virtual world of niceties and presented happiness and perfection. When I would wonder in those shameful and human moments of what was happening with them, I’d connect through a friend’s page to their own; looking at old pictures, numb or spiteful to new ones. There hadn’t been much new pictures lately. But then, I hadn’t looked at their page for a long, long time.
Information was like that; you didn’t know how you’d gotten it, but you just knew stuff. Like I knew that the account was in her name, but they both used the account and posted comments. Everyone who knew them knew that, I guess.
And so, here was a picture that one of them had posted of me, with them, together, before.
Before even our marriage, when our love was not new, but deepening into something more. Before the divorce, when their love had been new, forbidden, and painful to discover.
I wondered who wrote those words. Who was missing me, and why? Or was it even about me? Well, how could it not be? Why would they miss the days where I was a part of their life, but he had been mine, and she had been like my sister?
How could that have nothing to do with me?
I turned from the screen, my eyes pregnant with tears.
But they were old, tired, and numb tears with only ambiguous emotions echoed off of an old wound.
After seven years, I’d chosen to accept that my pain no longer had anything to do with them. I chose to remove their responsibility.
But I could never deny that I still loved him. When I looked at his face, it was there and serious like a heart attack. When I saw her face, I could think of nothing. Just white hot lightning shards of anger and hatred that I knew had been birthed in my trust and love for her.
Reminiscing should always be pleasant.
I tuned them out with television and red wine; then with a journal and thought for myself and my life, not theirs.
It was a couple of weeks later when I looked again at their page, deciding to remove criticism of my morbid curiosity.
The picture was gone.
Sophira has had a torrid, painful and passionate love affair with writing since she was old enough to pick up a book. They just can’t seem to break up. She’s from Brooklyn, New York and she though she plans on leaving one day and never returning, it will always be home. She loves discussing good books and the perils of being a writer – her email address is email@example.com if you’d like to reach out.