I’ve been in love, like really in love, three times. And they all happened in pretty rapid succession, leaving a space of maybe only a year or two in between. As a result, in each relationship, I found the former bleeding through.

I’ve been married to Tim for almost 17 years now (HOLY CRAP), so this phenomenon has faded, but when I pulled this piece out of my old blog archives, it brought me right back to what that was like.

To Some of the Boys I’ve Loved Before

I dream in previous lives. In one, my first husband and I are young and he carves our initials into a tree planted in the middle of a parking lot at the nearby high school. He proposes to me right there in the middle of a hot summer Thursday-I accept, act surprised, even though I orchestrated the entire moment-right down to paying for the ring.

His mother is a soft woman. Her birthing him and his siblings was her greatest achievement. Later, when I think of the word mother, I will think of her-always. Losing her was the worst part of our breakup. Her kindness was just what a chubby, insecure teenage girl needed. I fled in the darkness with a tiny piece of her heart in my throat. I mourn the fact that she can never know my daughters. Part of me thinks she would love them, even though they are pieces from a different puzzle.

blue and white clouds painting — Photo by Kseniya Lapteva on Unsplash

In another, there is a broken boy from a shattered family. I am determined to stitch him back together. There are car parts on the kitchen table, worked on by greasy hands belonging to older brothers. There is a missing mother and no curfews or concern. He is the strongest person I know who protects me from everything but him. He calls me and breaks up with me. I cry. He is kidding. I threaten to slit my wrists. He offers me a kitchen knife. When I chicken out, he dumps a warm beer over my head. I am 15. His cruelty crusts over a part of my heart no one will ever breach.

There are chapters of books living inside of me. They hold the stories of bad break ups, many failures, different hands on my body. They hold the story of my babies. How they could have been his, or another his, but found the exact right man.

I braid my daughter’s black-brown hair. Three strands thick and sturdy fold effortlessly into two, then fall together into one. She loses patience with me when I have to pull it all apart and start again. Which I do often.

The timelines bleed together like a watercolor sky-I call my husband your name in my head sometimes, fix his coffee like yours, wonder if you remember the way we sometimes fit together like the ocean and the sand-one resting atop another before pulling and pushing away. Sometimes, I hear your voice in my kitchen or imagine us as teenagers against a black sky in the backyard of my new home.

I don’t know how to separate you completely out.

But, I’m learning.

One chapter at a time.

*The end

What I’m Watching

Two things:

I’m late to the game here, but loved Everything, Everywhere, All at Once. Yes it’s very sci-fi with interconnecting universes and such, but at its heart it’s an old-fashioned mother/daughter story. Here’s the trailer if you’re interested.

And I’m LOVING Shrinking on Apple TV with Jason Segel and Harrison Ford. Well written and a great concept. It has the feel-good vibes of Ted Lasso but with a darker edge to it. Here’s the trailer if you’re interested.

Today’s ask: Can you help me share this space? Miss Remembering will be sharing stories of women- some you will know, some you will not, but I hope you’ll relate to in some way.

Share Miss Remembering

Thanks for reading, everyone!

xoxo,
Amye

Miss Remembering by Amye Archer

To Some of the Boys I’ve Loved Before