The joy of open email boxes

Coda. In the end it was all about words, just words, mostly words undiscovered but enough of them to completely and totally shut down the show.

Hot July afternoon. A Sunday. I was out with The Boy, you were at work. I remember dropping off some Dr Seuss stickers (ah, Seussical Style!) and a note in your locker. I know that the phone rang once in my pocket once I got home. I was outside grilling. It was still hot.

I didn't know until the next day...when was that? my work shift? yours?...that your email box was found open at home. Or was set up, thanks to remembered passwords, to be automatically opened when someone accessed Google email. Something happened. Didn't matter, though, because all that did matter was that you came home and the conversations, the ones that began ernest back in May, were now completed. What was there left to talk about? There was nothing to do but surrender the cause. The jig was up and you, all the particulars were known and you, holder of all the keys to the kingdom, decided not to abdicate your throne. You held on and that was that.

I still have that letter you put in my box describing that afternoon. Somewhat like the inquisition, you said. I still remember sitting in my car the next night. I went out for mangos, but instead of going to your door and stealing you away, I sat and looked down the street towards your house and let the motor idle. I went home. Feeling not too much different than I do today, or a million other days, it seems.

And, as I said, that was that.

Funny how I can remember that coda. Not word for word, not even close. But it was that "change in my home, my mind, my heart" thing that has impacted the rest of our lives. Not that you wanted it, but you, good hearted thing, needed to do it.

For the sake of God and the non-negotiables.

Man, what a struggle. Epic. Went on for months and almost years. I suppose that it ended all two weeks ago, in that drive by. That look in your eyes. Have you ever had that happen to you before? That visual brand? That psychic tattoo, the one that says, "stop"? You said it before and it never took hold. Considering all, I must be either very hard headed or very stupid. Carried on well past the expiration date of any and all affections. Fondness no longer applied. Love was bankrupt and the judge, had he gotten ahold of me, would have thrown the Book of Love at me.

But, you know, the lessons of life are universal. It couldn't just happen to you. Like car wrecks and food poisoning and house burglaries, they come around whether you've been good or bad or full out stupid. In my case, probably all three.

I left an email box open the other day. Not one filled with salacious or steamy emails, but letters to a friend. I think you would like that, knowing that once again I could possibly be finding time, energy and heart for a friend. But I digress. I was excited to once again find letters filled with life in my email box. It was heady to once again be sharing words about matters of importance, like crazy relationships and the relentless march of time and troubles of the heart. It felt good and right and serious, to share those things, those thoughts and feelings, with a friend.

So. What happened? People happen. One hand washes the next, and in this case a whole bunch of hands washed me clean out of a good weekend. I came home after the holiday to find out that my box of electronic letters, including old Calcopo files, had been shared with the Estranged One and all the immediate members of her family. Not good. Too bad. For everyone.

In this case I am not pleading guilty or going before God for forgiveness or crawling on my hands and knees or any of that. I have been the victim of a marital war crime for years now, one that goes beyond hurt and forgiveness, and my sins, I feel, are minor in comparison. Nevertheless I own that I am the master of hurt for my lack of descretion. For that I am guilty and sorry.

I am sure that you must have felt the same way when you blew it and left that box open. Lost sleep, recriminations, guilt trips, the whole shebang. Unlike you, though, I can do it at five hundred miles. Lots of space to stew, lots of room for wandering souls to bump around in the dark of night. No one around to grill me, no one to watch me squirm.

As for my friend, the one I was writing to? We worked on her yard yesterday. I met her mom and her step dad, and I have to say, that I liked them alot. She made me supper and we talked awhile afterwards. I like the gal and as far as I can tell, she likes me, too. No judgment calls. Strictly above board. And filled with something that I haven't seen or felt in a long time: acceptance.

That is the best thing to happen to me in a long time. As for that open mail box? The worst. But know that it will always be pale in comparison to that hot day in July we shared oh so long ago, and the pain and suffering that you, my dear, had to endure for the sake of loving someone other than The Detective.

Your WHMB