Spring Cleaning

The ancient desk had to go. Years ago I had rescued it when my dad casually mentioned that he was planning to pitch it. It had been in my house my whole life, and I couldn't bear to see it go at the time. So it lived at my house for the past ten years or so.

But now it was time to pitch it. It was big and bulky, too large to make a good computer desk.

We are not in a place of hanging onto the past.

Sifting through the mountains of paperwork stored in that old desk, I came across a file folder. In it were printouts of my old blog, posts made in depression and anguish and searing loss, while I tried to figure out why I was in love with a woman that was not my wife, and why it hurt so bad to be prohibited from seeing her. Painful writings. Hurtful writings.

In the folder were also stacks of other evidence that my wife had collected to bring to her lawyer, when all hope of reconciliation had ended. In it, I think (though I didn't verify) was the CD containing every Instant Message and email that I exchanged with the other woman.

The summary of my sin and shame.

I handed the file folder to the Lady. "I, um, don't know what you want to do with this."

She took it and glanced through the contents, recognising it instantly. She was silent for a long time. I puttered around in another pile of papers while she thought.

Then: "I suppose we should pitch this," she said quietly.

"I'm very okay with that, Lady," I said. "But I don't have the right to make that decision."

She was silent for another long time. I kept working, pitching some papers, filing others.

Then she came to me and looked into my eyes, folder in hand. She waved the folder vaguely and said, "you're not this person anymore, are you." She said it like a statement, not a question, but her eyes pleaded with me to answer correctly.

I looked deep into her eyes and gently grasped her shoulders in my hands for added emphasis. "No," I said firmly. "No, I'm not. Never again," I added, referring both to my years of depression and the affair.

Her eyes searched my face. "Never again?" she queried.

"Never. Again."

"Then put it in the trash," she said.

"You're sure?"

"If you're sure that you will never be that person again."

I took the folder, containing the evidence of my infidelity of heart, and put it in the trash bag. I tied it closed and took it out of my wife's presence, out of my house, out of my property. I placed it at the curb with the other trash.

The evidence is gone. But I will never forget, because I will never allow this to happen again.