Returning to L.A. is bittersweet, sure I have In n Out and the ocean again, after an endless stream of “bless your hearts” and country music, but everywhere I look I see reminders of my failure. Failure as a wife, mother, perhaps woman or human being.
The gas station where he first threatened me, the mountain drive where I almost forced us off the road. The chapel where we got married. The hospital our children were born at. But now I was free from the man, if my mind would allow it, if I could only escape the memories, blind my mind to the past that scarred me. The hate still fills me.
He’s now ashes strewn next to some fucking tree his sister liked. But dead or alive, I’m still trapped in the prison of the memories. His critical voice is still the one I hear when I’m consumed with doubt.
Each landmark of this city is filled with memory, dipped in pain, and then rolled in remorse. And yet returning is all I’ve wanted to do for the last year. Even better to return a widow. Is that horrible to say? It doesn’t matter, it’s true. It’s how I feel.
Single in the city. This my new life. The Hollywood sign will drain of his judgement, Los Feliz won’t be streets of scorn, and traffic on the 10 will be just that – traffic, innocuous and uncaring. This is my return to L.A. This is my return to life.
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