My former boss used to say it didn’t matter how many things you’d done correctly, or right, or how many times you had saved a client’s business – the only thing they will remember is what you did wrong. Unfortunately, I’ve found that to be true in my professional life; but I didn’t know it also applied to love.
Sam and I had almost two years together. I can hardly remember a time when we argued or got mad at each other, or even hung up on the other. (OK, I admit, I did hang up on him once.) Most of my memories are filled with laughter and giggling, good conversation, and beautiful intimate moments I don’t ever want to forget.
I think of how he would sneak across the room to pinch me – it scared me and made me laugh at the same time. I think of all his special made-up words for every day things. I think of his morning wake-up phone calls, and the “I LV U” text messages received throughout the day.
I remember him detailing the inside of my car without me even asking for such a thing; and an oil change to boot! I remember his generosity and willingness to help me out of a financial crunch. I remember him talking about his daughters, how much he loved them, and telling me stories about the cute things they did growing up. I remember our own little language we created for ourselves, things that would probably make no sense to an outsider, but we knew exactly was meant. I remember laughing together, with each other or at each other. I remember his stories of the things he loved: diving, surfing, singing. I remember all of these things more than I remember what went wrong.
How, then, can so much good, so much love and wonder be weighed down and destroyed by only a few, less than a handful, of negatives? How did such a thing unravel in less than six weeks? How is it that I remember all these good things, and believe that is why it was worth keeping our relationship, while I believe Sam only remembers the worst of it, no matter how small or infrequent.
In Egyptian myth, when one dies, the soul comes to Maat, Goddess of Justice, to determine its worth before it continues into the afterlife. Resting on the Scales of Justice before her are a feather, and the deceased’s heart. If his heart weighs lighter than the feather, he has lived a just and good life; his life was filled with love, generosity, and kindness. He gets to continue into the After Life, The Kingdom of the Gods. He was found worthy.
But, if his heart weighs more than the feather, his life was filled with anger, hate, injustice and conceit; heavy dark things. His soul will not be allowed to pass into the After Life. He will be condemned to exist as spirit, never ascending.
I did not believe my relationship with Sam weighed heavier than a feather. But this weekend, I was faced with the possibility that Sam had weighed our relationship, too; and what he brought to the scales was not the same offering as my own. He weighed his fears, his worries, his issues with me, his frustrations, the ways we’ve hurt each other these past few weeks. He has weighed all of this; the worst of what has happened between us in these four weeks, and the few nuisances that exist in every relationship. In his offering, there was not enough good, not enough love or joy, not enough laughter or contentment to tip the balance of the scale. For his offering, our relationship weighed heavier than a feather; we are condemned and cannot ascend.
I hope and pray these heavy things are not Sam’s last memory of us; that despite all the good and wondrous things we had in our relationship, all he will remember is what went wrong. What I did wrong. What he did wrong. What we did wrong, together.
I truly hope his memories will one day be good, and filled with joy; no regret, no more sadness; no more of the dark heavy things. I pray that as the days pass, perhaps years, he will find the scales tipping in the other direction. That one day, for him, our love will weigh lighter than a feather.
