Last night I thought about the "Hectors" in my life: two of them who delighted and frightened me. Both out of my life now, never really in it, only in my mind. Hector II, I had an abortion from at the age of 38. "You're not going to let this happen again, are you?" said the nurse assisting the doctor as my uterus was being suctioned out, me as pale as white paper. "No," I said, at the lowest ebb of my life.
Yesterday was my 21st year in leaving Fast Eddie, my daughters' father. A few men have come and gone since him but none resulting in marriage, not even close. I am either a relationship failure or the most independent girl of my time for I love being alone and when others suggest Mr. Right might be out there, I smile because I could care less.
He'd have to be magnificent in purpose and maybe he is. Maybe he is out there - in my circle - the one I'm creating right now and no Hectors allowed.
Now some may say I'm a murderer and often that's how I feel about it all, but I also believe the spirit that agreed to come into my third child, broke free as I was lying there dying, and inhabited another piece of flesh. It was my loss any way you look at it, and I will meet him or her one day...probably already know my third babe. We are all connected in this life or the one we cross over to; the same one I looked up to the sky that Saturday, day before Father's Day, already remorse, feeling so stupid to think the removal would take away all the pain, the worry, the memory.
Never.
The morning I drove to the clinic a song by Elton John played on the radio as I pumped gas. "You've Got to Love Someone," he sang and I've never heard the song again.
Never.
When I left hours later, numb, I looked skyward and apologized, feeling the spirit breeze back upward, not hurt. It was I who was wounded.
That's the rub. Humans feel the burn.
Dedicated to Amelia or Octavio.
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