“Write hard and clear about what hurts”. – Ernest Hemingway.
His name was Dax. He was 28 years old, he was tall with blue eyes and a smile that could melt me to the floor and beyond. He worked as a real estate agent in the small town of Two Harbors Minnesota. He was married to a beautiful blonde haired goddess who seemed perfect. Her name was Claire. Dax was perfect even when his troubles and mistakes crept through the cracks I had tried to patch up for him. His name was Dax. He was perfectly imperfect.
I was in love with him. My name is Anne Marie.
This is my version of events. Events which happen every day, in every town and in every country. I know that the nights I spent wide awake staring at the ceiling were shared with thousands of other men and women, who, on their own island of pillows replayed moment after moment, looking for love, looking for happiness, redemption, clarification and resolve. And all we get, is the restless sleep which inevitably comes, and the time in space where dreams can be a reality, if only for a little while. Then that moment, when you first awake, and open your eyes, and for that millisecond, everything is okay. In that second I can confidently say that Dax is laying next to me, and I will roll over and be greeted by his smile.
My heart broken pieces will live in that moment, until I am ready to move past it, and I will burst from it, and become the women I have always wanted to be.
girlinprogress2013 