Dissolution— By Janelle cordero
Artwork by Arlene Tribbia
I.
I drove to my mom’s house to print the divorce paperwork. Now there’s a blinding white stack of lines to fill in, boxes to check: communal property, dissolution. One of the questions is, is either party pregnant? I lean over the kitchen counter and rest my face on the cold granite. I start to cry. My mom rubs my back and runs her fingers through my hair in a way she hasn’t done in years—I’m difficult to touch. You won’t be the same person after this, she says. Some of your innocence will be gone. But once the paperwork is filed, all you have to do is wait. And when it’s finalized, you’ll cry again. The grief will come back, over and over. But you’ll be happy someday. She stops talking but keeps rubbing my back, the palm of her hand making a swooshing sound on my t-shirt, healing me.
II.
70 days before the divorce is finalized, you called me on your way home from work but hung up right away. Sorry, you texted, force of habit. You used to call me as you drove home every afternoon, and I’d usually be driving, too. Sometimes we’d arrive at the house at the same time, both of us with the other’s voice in our ears, smiling and waving, not getting off the phone until we opened our car doors. What a love we shared, how precious we were to one another. You’re a man I don’t recognize now in your thrift store jeans and boxy black shirt with the sleeves cut off, your hair picked out, eyes never wanting to meet mine, mouth a thin straight line. But I knew you, once, better than anyone. I matched my breathing to yours as we slept side-by-side for close to a decade. I miss you, is what I’m saying, even as I let you go.
III.
The picture was taken two years ago at the annual art show downtown. We have our arms around each other, both wearing black with gleaming white smiles, eyes barely open from the wine, the music, the unseasonable heat of that October night. The picture has been on our fridge for years, long enough for a rectangle of dust to gather around it on the stainless steel. Long enough for me to have the photo memorized, to see it and not see it whenever I reach for something to eat: an apple, a chicken thigh, some carrots. So I noticed right away when it was gone, and I looked for it in the stack of mail next to the coffee maker, in the junk drawer. I didn’t expect to find it face-up in the kitchen trashcan when I went to dump the coffee grounds. What have I done, I want to say, for you to erase me, other than try to love you, other than let you down?
IV.
I could write about you forever. Why wasn’t that enough? I understand—there’s very little to love about me. But I make up for it by noticing everything, everything about you, and loving you still, and loving you more. We could talk for hours, remember? Ask me how I am and I couldn’t say—all I’ve learned recently has to do with sex and food. I can deep throat, almost. I can cook rice and chicken thighs. I can ignore myself and my feelings for weeks at a time. I’m better, is what I’m saying. I’m worse than before.
V.
What’s with the dots, my boyfriend’s son asks, pointing at the tattoo on my left ring finger. Nothing, I lie, just dots. I can’t tell him they’re my wedding band. How much did that cost, the boy asks. 50 bucks, I say, and he scoffs. Does anybody even notice, he asks. No, I say, hardly anyone. Do you regret it, he asks, meaning the tattoo. No, I say, meaning everything else.
VI.
The toilet is too heavy for me to lift. I got it out of the bathroom by dragging it across the subfloor, but now the planks are laid and I have to find another way. I unscrew the tank and put it aside—I find I can lift the base, so I lower it onto the new wax ring and tighten the bolts. Then I reattach the tank before turning the water back on and checking for leaks. The bowl fills, I flush it, it fills again. No dripping, no pooling on the floor. So simple, installing a toilet, but I’m siting on the edge of my 70’s steel yellow bathtub, crying. I’m crying because I’m happy—I did this by myself. I’m crying because I’m sad—I did this by myself.
Janelle Cordero is a poet, artist, and educator living in Spokane, Washington. Her writing has appeared in dozens of literary journals, including Driftwood Press, Jet Fuel Review and Hobart, while her paintings have been featured in venues throughout the Pacific Northwest. Janelle is the author of five books of poetry, including Talk Louder (Papeachu Press, April 2024). As a fifth-generation resident of eastern Washington, Janelle has a deep love for cedar groves, lilacs, and small towns with one main street.