It’s funny how much can change in a year.  Fourteen months ago I was sitting in this Detroit airport at this exact gate waiting out an unexpected, eight hour flight delay.  I sat in this very corridor fighting back tears over the disappointment of a delayed return home.  I’d been gone on an amazing three-week backpacking trip but I was officially ready to get back… to my love. I must’ve called him five or six times with updates and venting, just homesick and ready to return to his arms.

Today I sit in this airport saturated by sweet memories.  It’s bittersweet to remember.  Recalling how full my heart was.  Recounting the hopefulness, the kisses, embraces, laughs, stories, and shared experiences.  It’s bittersweet to remember the romance as new and unweathered, untainted.  A year ago, I was lovesick.  And now I’m just sick of love.  Sick to death of its recurring pain, like tentacles that won’t release a victim.  It’s hard to remember the good times.

Heartache is a torment.

A broken heart seems unrelenting because even when you’re through the worst of it, little thoughts or memories resurface.  And, when left to my own sullen devices, those indelible memories loose the floodgates.  Beautiful moments come pouring in and my cold heart grows soft, then angry, then hurt.  Over and over again.

I guess what I’m saying is, even when it gets better heartache is still a bitch.