Missing Men

Being left by men. The relationships of the women they leave. Wives. Children. Daughters. Sisters. This cliché has existed for centuries, probably thousands of years, since men have always been the ones able to leave. Allowed is probably the better word. And despite its cliché-ness, it is ever so real to so many people I know. Specifically me. My own family. I have been brought back to this central theme by so many things in the past few days. Silly things, like movies and songs and a particular book. Regardless, it has struck a chord that I usually can keep hidden. And I tried to ignore it, but the pain of abandonment is never forgotten. And the ways in which the leftover women grasp at the ropes of understanding. Punishing themselves, criticizing the ways in which their sisters or mothers ‘handle’ it, hating what they too are incapable of overcoming. It’s excruciating. To know that the one’s they should be blaming are far away. And so they poke and prod and tear down themselves and others with the aching knowledge that no one should have felt any of this to begin with. Each child or mother bringing a specific kind of hurt to the table. And watching as it mingles with others and becomes a collective, destructive, and indiscernible force. Yet, it is so clear. It is because they are missing.

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