Decree Day Thoughts, Part 2

I dressed for battle.  I called on the spirits of all the warlike nations of history as I selected and put on my clothes.  When I pulled my blood red sweater over my head, I swear I heard it clang shut.  All the sensory receptors of my skin felt blocked by a thin layer of leather and chain maille.  I prepared for war.  I put on light makeup, but the picture in my mind was a Maori leader's dark, swirling tattoos.  I clipped my hair away from my face, and in my mind I clicked shut the chin strap of a battle helmet. 

 I put the necessary items in my purse: keys, wallet, phone, letter from his attorney, jumble of toilet paper in lieu of tissues.  I slipped my purse over my shoulder, and it became a crossbow, cocked and loaded with one deadly shot.  All of my steps were heavy, meant to make the very earth shake before me.

I dressed for battle.  I prepared for war.  All of this, even though our parting was as civil as these things can be.  It was a polite conversation held across a chasm via smoke signals.  No shots fired, ladders lowered, trebuchets loaded with flaming cannonballs so we could burn each other to the ground.  It was not a war.  It was a surgical separation provided at a hospital with the most compassionate care.  Because I prepared for the blunt force trauma of war, and not the gentle final separation of two people who were already apart, I felt lost at the end of the hearing.  

Where do you put the battle gear when there is no war to fight? I stood tall under the weight of my armor, my weapons, my full-face tattoo.  I walked away with my heavy steps and dropped my gear, piece by piece, until I only had my hurt and anger, cradled in my heart, swaddled with relief.  I dressed for battle to go into a birth.  I prepared for war to witness a soft, gentle death.