Miriam Zoll wanted to share this short story - Confetti Love - with the readers of FertilityStories. Enjoy!
by Miriam Zoll
At the red light I jumped out of the car into the cold December night. We had been fighting these last few weeks. Quibbling was really the right word. Putting our fingers on the small pulses of our life together and offering polite critiques like rabid political pundits during the presidential season.
This evening Michael was pointing out the negative ways I continued to frame the disappointments of my life. He wanted desperately to have a glass half full but I was still half empty.
“I will not paint a smile on my face where one does not exist,” I told him angrily as I slammed the car door.
It was just turning cold enough to see your own breath and he watched as small puffs of white air trailed behind me like the trail of breadcrumbs Hansel left for the woodcutter. But he decided not to follow me. I turned right at the intersection and he turned left.
I watched him drive away then stood still for a moment in my thin leather jacket looking up at the tops of tall sugar maples backlit by the streetlights.
“What am I doing here?” I wondered. We had been so warm and affectionate that morning and now I was standing alone in the cold in the middle of an unknown town. It was truly like a Star Trek episode where Spock and Bones and the Captain are beamed down to some distant planet that is completely alien to them. All of my physical readings looked normal: I could breathe the air, stand on solid ground, place one foot in front of the other and walk all the way to Timbuktu if I wanted to. But inside my emotional compass had lost all of its bearings. I was no longer capable of steering my life or his on an even keel. Now here I was unsure of whether our marriage would make it through to the morning. Over the last few years our love had been shredded like a letter. What we were now experiencing was the confetti of our love; the little bits and pieces that comprise the whole, the little bits that are so disjointed you can’t really tell where we fit together anymore. In the middle of that intersection I realized I could head north, south, east or west. One path could lead to motherhood. One path could lead to divorce. One path could lead to a life of asceticism, like the gaunt and bony holy homeless of India. Which path would I take?
Read the rest of the story here.