I’ve been doing my fair share of it the last few days.
Ugly crying, a term coined by a friend of mine, is when your face gets all contorted; where you look pretty much like a creature. I guess that’s why most of us bury our face in our own hands when really crying, or alternatively, into a pillow where we can muffle our animalistic wailing so as to avoid having the neighbors call an ambulance (or the animal rescue).
I learned last night that my husband is moving on, something we’ve both been preparing for after deciding we just want different things. He came home late, and he told me everything. There was no bitterness, just a whole lot of talking, hugging and looking at each other with bittersweetness, like “now what?”
When I woke up this morning, I tried doing some laundry to get my mind off it all, but I collapsed onto the clothing heap when I picked up his awful striped sailor sweater and took a deep inhale, smelling the scent I’ve come to know through thousands of his hugs. I sobbed Tammy Faye style, black tears running down my puffy face (why I bothered applying mascara today eludes me).
I will shamelessly cry for all the beauty created from our love, all the lessons we’ve learned, and all the tenderness we still hold for each other. I cry in sadness and in happiness.
I love you, Richard. Have since the first night you kissed me and will forever, no matter what.