D I V O R C E

D I V O R C E Standing at the window of the the divorce kiosk, there’s a strange quiet in the room.. the muted shuffle of polished shoes.. the dim conversations about legalities.. the pale dirt color of the walls and carpet, stretching forever down government hallways.. the sound of “Angel’s” beaded bracelet as she shuffles parts of my life story into neat little piles. It’s like an invisible vacuum is sucking the noises from the atmosphere, and the only distinct sound is the dull thud of her stamping papers as she makes it official. I reach for my phone to fill the void. Facebook. Email. Text. I can’t do the rounds. I just listen. To Angel’s rhythmic salute to another marriage ended. There are a few people in line - a hispanic woman, a man with white hair wearing painter pants and holding a stack of files. How many marriages have officially ended in this room? What does it feel like to work in a place like this? What do they think about marriage after witnessing repeated petitions to divorce? Isn’t it kinda weird that we can just stand here at this kiosk with a few papers and put a swift end to something that was supposed to be forever? I’m confused about what marriage means, and I feel it even more standing here today. I got married with the understanding that this was the end of my search. My forever man had arrived and we were going to build a forever life together. I’m sure this is a shared sentiment with most people who get married. So when over half of marriages end in divorce, why do we continue to have a belief that this moment called marriage will last forever? Maybe it would be more reasonable to commit to doing the absolute best you can; commit to doing the work that limits your ability to love; commit to making conscious effort to supporting your beloved’s growth? And maybe that lasts forever, but at least if it doesn't, we aren't completely surprised or, worse, ashamed.. I am in complete awe and respect for couples who are married for many many years, and in all honesty, I want that too! If that’s what happens, fantastic! If not, well.. I guess that’s alright too. Because we decide from the get-go to choose every single day, not once on bended knee. Angel pauses from entering my information into her computer and asks in a Latin accent, ‘What you wanna do for your last name?’ I don’t know. What do I want to do? Have a different name from my kids? If I ever got ‘married’ again, would I then hyphenate, like a lineage of husbands? The whole thing is absurd. ‘Just keep it the same for now,’ I tell her. She continues stamping dates and labels. ‘That’s a lot of stamping you do.’ ‘Oh yes, but is no good for this,’ she bends her wrist back and forth. ‘Oh yes, I see.’ I have this terrible habit of mimicking people’s accents because I think it helps them understand me better. She hands me officially stamped divorce papers and tells me a third-party needs to give these papers to my once-husband. ‘Next?’ she calls. And just like that. It’s done. No friends and family gathered to celebrate life shared. No words exchanged between partners to commemorate this moment. Divorce happens in quiet, dull rooms like funeral homes.. and I guess that makes sense.