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Sincerely yours, he’d signed off my Dear John.
Not yours sincerely, not even kind regards. I had given this man sex, decent dinners and children. I’d never sat on a doorstep like our neighbours, nor hung my head over a bong watching our toddlers avoid cars as they played in the street. I’d always dressed before lunchtime and had the bin out the night before. Ok, I nagged you to take them, but there’s no better feeling than knowing you were pushing it out – just for me.
You know I’ve forgotten all the other women, their scents upon your skin. I’ve even forgotten their scratches on your back. I’ve managed to delete the replaying conversations that I’ve overheard on social media and I’ve tried to love you as best I can.
OK, recently, I could hear us arguing, grating, as if chalk on a blackboard and see the darkened confusion, always shadowed on our children’s faces. But I love you. Like, forever love, the love that can forget drunken spats and swelling behind sunglasses.
I will you to remember our chemistry and how you complete me. You’d fill me so completely, our security together was serene. I’d watch you sleeping like a cherub, quenched from my body, and believe I was balm to your soul.
Now I remember really, how I ached, and my body yearned. I needed your touch but you’d let out soft snores instead. ‘Sort the kids out’– you’d groan – ‘so I can relax.’ Instead of being synchronised like other couples who became one, I’d be picking up kids toys.
The kids need a father, not a Dear John, with #sincerely yours, what am I going to do without you?
My sister says ‘relax and smile –let the wind blow through your hair – but whatever – always be thankful for the kids he gave you.’
A Anderson Mature stories and poems 