You’d think with time and experience things get easier. This is true for all manner of things– you better navigate the awkward pauses as an adult, you figure out better ways to repair old clothes, old friendships, old furniture. Break ups, however, do not become any easier. They are always a fresh hurt.
Here in Florida, it’s dipped down into the 30s, and my pomegranates will freeze for the third time this winter. Will all these plants, repeatedly frozen, survive? Are hearts the same way? Love is like spring. Maybe it was a late frost that killed this thing. Maybe it was transplanting it. Absence does nothing for hearts but break them.
You’d think I’d learn.
And you’d be right. It just means I know the story’s ending. I happen to like this kind of tale. I’m the medieval audience, listening not for the unexpected, but for the craft of its telling. I earned this broken heart. It was a tale well told.