On Saturday I Had a Ceremony

Anger Deadline: One Year Later
I begin by opening the door to my apartment to greet my girlfriends, one with a bag of sugary baked goods and one with a bag of magazines.
They compliment the newly rearranged apartment, knowing it has been a struggle for me.
We sit.
I serve cheese, roasted brussel sprouts and cauliflower, hummus, baguette, and olive oil. We devour the brussel sprouts first and I introduce the childhood me to the adult me, clearly a stranger with a mouthful of vegetables.
The wine glasses have brightly-colored rubber bracelets on the stems (so that the adults may be reminded of those childhoods). The Redhead chooses a blue "Hope," NessaMonster selects the orange "Live," and I am left to "Wish" in yellow. We toast with those sentiments. We drink.
"So, what is this ceremony we are here for," asks an impatient Redhead.
"Well," I sigh, "My anger deadline was supposed to be New Year's Eve and I went a little over that mark and this weekend is the official one year later of the awful so it's my new anger deadline and Dr. Ronnie said maybe I should have a ceremony, so I'm having a ceremony. Here we are, then."
I tell the story of the bike ride for charity. I tell of how I raised all the money to get us on that ride and never once did he say thank you or express any gratitude or pride in my accomplishment. He also never donated. (Sidebar: I now regularly volunteer for that organization and I love it, so do trust that some awesome definitely came from that experience.)
I then tell the story of the cutting board and the box: I talked often to him about how I wanted to make a cutting board and I asked if I could use his shop. He said he would make it. "No," I said. "I want to make it. Will you please make me a box to put all of my keepsake trinkets in...the shells we pick up, the movie stubs? I want to make the cutting board." He showed me the drawings for my box. He was often late to my house for our dates on Saturday because he was working on my present. For my birthday I was presented with a beautiful, handmade....cutting board. I was also given a cigar box to put my trinkets in until my wood box was finished. It was a quiet anger. For who am I to punch a gift-horse in the mouth?
I sold that beautiful, handmade cutting board in a stoop sale for far less than it was worth. But the young man who bought it is, I'm sure, using it well, and not looking at it knowing it was made with poisonous hands that choke. But what to do with that $10? I've had the exact $10 sitting on my dresser now for two months, wondering what to do with it. I do not want to buy anything specific with it, because then every time I look at it I would be reminded, but I also do not want a pedicure or a bottle of wine, because those don't seem "big" enough.
Well, guess what. I'm signed up to ride the 5 Boro for charity again this year and he is my first donor.
"Anonymous--$10," I label the envelope.
We are all very proud. I feel good about this. Really good.
"What's next," she asks.
I bring out the cigar box and systematically explain every piece of paper in it. One of them is a art-show publicity postcard with a photo of a pair of scissors he'd made. "This gives me an idea," says Nessa. I had had the same idea and walk to the shredder, set-up, plugged-in, and ready to go. Goodbye, movie stubs and museum tickets. Goodbye, PA Dutch Country brochure. We give the petrified wood and the seashells one last glance before they go into the trash. I stomp the cigar box with the heel of my cowboy boot before it follows.
I then explain that I wanted to cleanse like the Native Americans do with sage or sweetgrass, but the weather had deterred me from walking all over the Lower East Side in search of a smudge stick, so I went to CVS in search of a sage-scented candle. No luck. The Redhead points to the chocolate candle on the table. "Are we going to use chocolate." "Yes. Yes, we are."
I show them how to cleanse themselves with the smoke. We each do. Then we bless the entrance of the apartment...to keep the poison out. (We throw in a chocolate blessing at the roommate's door and the kitchen, just for good measure.)
I then tell my story. And I forgive myself. I forgive myself for staying one extra night. I forgive myself for getting back into that bed. I forgive myself for giving him endless chances. I forgive myself not calling it what it was. I did not, nor do I, necessarily forgive him. But I will stop being so angry.
Then we eat cupcakes.
I clear the table and I put out index cards, glue sticks, scissors, and those magazines. What? Did you forget about the magazines? For the next three hours, we three make collage postcards for each other for our journeys. We snip pretty pictures and inspiring phrases and laugh at who will receive the "nice booty" postcard.
The ceremony is complete when the ladies decide it is very late and should go home, one to a husband who is waiting up to let her in because he has her keys, the other to bed for an early rise for work. I lock the door behind them and sit on the couch.

I am not angry.

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