I’ve come to realize and accept that I mark the date of my husband’s deportation more deeply than our anniversary. He was detained April 26, and deported the following day.
Picasso and I were married in a civil ceremony. Perhaps I’d feel differently if we’d done a full-out wedding. Our civil ceremony was sweet and meaningful, and happened a little less than two weeks before my husband was deported.
But it’s the deportation date that I carry in my bones.
When April sneaks in the door, I know what’s going to happen at the end of the month. I want to notice and not notice at the same time. I try to turn my literal and figurative eye away from the facts:
Year 12 of my husband’s deportation. Year 2 of my husband and I living in separate countries. Week 2 of USCIS not being able to find my husband’s I-212 waiver application.
Within all of the uncertainty, all of the waiting right now, I actually don’t feel depressed. But I do feel like the stone in a slingshot, stretched all the way back.
Waiting to be released.