The famous statue from a grave at Savannah’s Bonaventure Cemetery.
We were in Savannah for the weekend, and I suggested we go to Bonaventure.
Once we started through the Civil War graves, Mark, who’d bought new hiking boots for the occasion, pulled them off and angrily threw them at headstones.
The whole weekend I’d been considering the relationship. Earlier I’d stared at the Bird Girl, who attracted pigeons and such from people leaving seed in the balances, wondering what to do.
The previous weekend, on New Year’s, we’d been in Charleston. He said at midnight, “I was going to ask you to marry me, but you said you didn’t want to get married.”
It was true. I was unhappy with him, and had begun spending time with an Italian man who made me feel buoyant, happy, and alive. I didn’t want to sign up for more constant fights and him mistreating my furniture.
At the cemetery, camellias were blooming, a few birds were out, the sun was alive, and the afternoon was luminous. I walked past him, picked up the boots, and waited for him to catch up. I said nothing, but turned in the direction of the car. “Where are you going?” He asked.
“I’m done,” I said. We got into the car; once we out on the highway, he told me to pull over, and he got out of the car to walk a bit. I waited for half an hour, then pulled up wordlessly and waited for him to get in and dropped him off. Then, I went home and neatly bagged his things to return.
Lo Scriviti 