You forget. That’s the thing.
When you’re going through it, you think it’s something you’ll never leave behind. But once you’ve left it behind, you forget.

Then you meet someone new, and they want to know your life story. You hedge, nattering away about your now instead. You have two babies, moved here from New York. Oh? Well, what’s that like? It’s not as if you hope you’re giving them enough so they won’t pry for more, because really, you don’t even think about it. You forget. Until they ask for details, which you pass along lightly, as if they’re the days of the week.

Monday was “I was married before.”
Tuesday was “Yeah, surgeon. Med school. No, I met him before then.”
Wednesday, “Well, senior year of college. A family barbecue when I was still a vegetarian.”
Thursday, “Through email, while I was pregnant.”
Friday, “No, no. I had an abortion.”
Saturday, “Because of Norman and City Slickers, really.”
Sunday, we rest and recharge, maybe remembering all the things we thought we’d never need to remind ourselves to remember. We remember the heavy moments that we now chatter about as if they never mattered. And one day, it’s how we’ll feel about now.