Knowing there would be fire, I took the opportunity to get rid of some old paperwork I had sitting around.
This was not just ordinary paperwork- this was 16 years any written word my ex had ever given me: notes passed in school, letters, slips of paper with a simple heart left on my windshield, anniversary cards and eventually marriage vows. "Treasures" I'd hoarded over the years, relishing any line penned by the man I loved. I worship the written word, and I worshipped him- I thought if he wrote it, if must be true. He didn't care much for writing, so there wasn't that much in the stack.
He would often draw a creepy "The Crow" face at the bottom of his correspondence in his early work. His spelling and grammar never improved beyond that, but I oh-so-lovingly lowered my standards and became ecstatic with any inked "proof" that he was thinking about me. That night at the fire, I re-read the words he'd left behind as cheap red wine coursed through my system. My friend kept stoking the fire, keeping it orange and bright and eager to cleanse.
Another pal kept us all chatting amicably to keep the mood light.
"Look at this one," I'd say, on the verge of tears. "This is the one where he promised to-"
"Ah, that's so cute," she'd cut me off. "Throw it in the fire."
Glistening liquid eyes and Blood-Alcohol Content made focusing hard, but I forced myself through every letter of every letter, chastising myself for reading so much into so little. I never wanted him to spend money on me- I'd even made a big deal out of not letting him BUY me anything for Valentine's Day, instead asking that he write me a love letter. My grand plan was to make a book to chronicle our affair for our kids to see one day.
Instead, this is the one (and only) Valentine's Day missive I ever received: "Roses are red, Violets are blue, let's get a philly cheesesteak - ..." The last line of the couplet didn't rhyme. It was a request for a oral.
I'd watched on Feb. 14th from my mother's kitchen as his car pulled up in the driveway. He'd forgotten it was Valentine's Day, but suddenly remembered my request, and had scribbled this out on a page torn from his notebook. I'd been disappointed and kind of offended at the time (I was 19,) but I convinced myself that he'd get it right next year, and I'd leave this one as a private "sexy" letter, just for me.
Evidence that I was wanted.
I didn't know at the time it'd be the only Valentine's Day letter I'd ever get. (He chose not to participate in the rest.) I guess it was too much to ask from him. Later he would leave me on a Feb. 12th and file for divorce on Feb. 14th, then lie about it for four weeks and "suddenly decide" after I sent him, of all things, a love letter.
I emailed him a list of 100 moments I loved in our lives together. He came to where I was staying that night and told me he was going to leave me anyway. Such a softie. He'd written me a few attempts at steamy pages over the years, but they were all thinly disguised requests for one act of passion or another. He'd start off musing and objectifying my body with all the literary craft of a 14-year-old, then eventually sort of start whining for sex.
There were letters explaining actions, there were letters of excuses, there were letters shaming me for being upset about him cheating, then shaming me for being jealous or suspicious. I'd kept those letters too- he so rarely put ink to paper... I just wanted a record of some sort.
"Look at how hard he tried."
"Throw it in the fire," my friend says, rubbing a soft circle with her hand on my back. "Let it burn."
Never was there an apology. Never was there an answer- just...bullshit. As the flames turned the paper to ashes, I felt a sense of relief- like in destroying these lies I was released from the hold they'd had over me. Knowing now what I know about this man and seeing 16 years of collective ego and falsehoods formed a more cohesive view of the writer. He'd been the same person all along- I just wanted a love story so badly, I pretended a last-second request for a blowjob was romantic.
Finally, the heavy-hitters...
The bottom of the pile of my inverted life: the wedding papers. I burned the cards first. All the glitter, jewels and ribbons melting into black char and unrecognizable carbon.
Then the vows. Oh, I cried hard when those went up in flames. Such pretty promises- I'd kept every one of mine. Reading his broken word again hurt me hard- I had truly been veiled, covered in a pretty snow job of white pure gauze and chiffon. The veil burned too. And the garter. And the ring box. And the paper I'd saved and been using to wrap his anniversary gifts in each June 19th. I even burned the Grinch Nose he'd been wearing when he proposed- the latex and paint burst into flame, and melted away like a melting green glacier. A tiny iceberg.
(NOTE: Ladies, if a man is hiding his face when he proposes, RUN.)
The last things to burn were the gifts we'd exchanged on our wedding day, which without any prior planning, had coincidentally both involved butterflies. I'd found a wind-up butterfly in a crafts store, and wound it up so when he opened his envelope, it would spring out into the sky and flutter away. I instructed him to open it outdoors. When he did, and he read the card, I'd inked my promise to him (to never bring up his cheating again): "With this butterfly, I am forgiving AND finally forgetting. I am letting go of my anger, fear, suspicion, and jealousy. When you see me again I'll be in a cocoon of white silk- a butterfly waiting for your release. Tonight we'll say goodnight to our friends and our family, and when it's just you and me we'll slip out of this chrysalis and into a new life together. I love you and I can't wait to start life anew with you as my husband."
He gave me a video game.
"Fatal Frame 3: Crimson Butterfly."
(It's a Japanese Horror game and it's actually pretty cool. I enjoyed it.)
I loved our dual butterflyship. Our wedding was beautiful. We cried together as we read the vows he'd later throw away and I'd be forced to burn.
A friend had retrieved and saved the wind-up gift, and I sobbed as it went into the fire.
That was the last thing I had to let go of: my own eager willingness to turn a blind eye. I didn't explain the significance of the winged messenger to my friends, who held me and kept chatting like people do when they're distracting a child from a booster shot. The yellow and black wings went up in flames, and it charred into nothing more than ash and wire.
I didn't want to burn my butterfly. I fucking LOVE butterflies. I wiped hot tears away and spoke instead of trivial things until I laughed again.
Eventually, the coals died down and we went to sleep on the pool deck. My friend made himself a stack of blankets to burrow under, and I slept in my clothes and my wolf hat snuggled tight in a nearby sleeping bag.
The chilly night passed and the sun came up.
The next morning I opened my eyes and FELT the day. I had no headache. I felt clear. I felt lighter.
The haze and smoke of the night before was gone, and only the faint smell of smoke lingered in my hair.
I breathed. I was breathing. I was OK.
I sat up and smiled at my friend, who grinned back at me from about 6 feet away as I slid slowly out of my silky sleeping bag.
The first words spoken to me that day were these:
"Good morning, Butterfly. Time to come out of your cocoon."
I will never know how I've wound up so lucky to spend my life with these incredible friends. The friends who let you burn when you need to, cry when you need to, and without any explanation, see you clearly first thing in the morning as you truly are: a singed-but undamaged, free Butterfly.
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