It was New Years Eve of 2000 when I knew that I’d wasted nearly a decade of my life. I watched the people in their formal attire stop dancing t0 wait for the 10 seconds to count down, watched them all turn expectant faces up for the kisses to come. I turned my own face to see my husband move through the crowd, away from me and toward some useful distraction.
It was a few months later that we sat, truth revealed, in the same house but not the same people as we were. I turned the TV to what I wanted to watch for a change, the smallest of bitter antagonisms I could muster. It was Hope Floats. Each moment from the start of the film seemed to echo into my Now except I didn’t have the romantic cowboy to turn to or a place to run home to…but as I watched I felt a skittering of Life cutting through the madness. I tamped it down. Months and years it was pressed beneath the silt and dead leaves that I donned inside.
And then one day a cowboy did show up. And he brought me back to Texas to within miles of that house in the film. He took me there to see it, not knowing why the tears fell as the town sign rushed into view. I watch the movie now and remember so well the utter terror, and the deep sense of failure that enrobed me then. I look around me now and know that there is hope even in the darkest days and if you will wait for it the light will find you again.
“…beginnings are scary, endings are usually sad, but it’s the middle that counts the most. Try to remember that when you find yourself at a new beginning.”