a haibun for the girl i was - ren glaser

I still live in the apartment I once shared with my ex-husband. 

Second floor walk-up. My couch was a wedding present. So was the entertainment center my brand new TV sits on. Very few pieces of my future are untouched by my ex’s hands. Sometimes I think about lighting the whole place on fire, burning the remnants of my worst failure to the ground. I could make it look like an accident. I have enough candles and incense burners. (Thankfully none of these have the stain of a man on them.) I think about burning the whole complex down a lot. I never do it. 

The place is now mercifully littered with plants. I need green more than I would care to admit. Maybe it’s the Kentucky forest in me. I grew up running barefoot through freshly mowed lawns and swimming in creeks much too shallow to be any kind of safe. I was not made for the city and its towering concrete mounds. Yet I ended up here anyway. 

I miss sunlight. I have one singular window that looks in towards the school building on the block behind me. Maybe that’s why I got so depressed. Maybe that’s why my marriage failed. The lack of warmth, of sunshine. I need to have grass staining my knees and skin that knows the kiss of the sun. Now I am pale and frail and utterly falling apart. 

I’m moving soon. Finally. Not out of the city but to a new part of it. One I both know and don’t know. One where I can start over, find myself again. My new apartment has giant windows. Floor to ceiling with plenty of light always streaming in. I’ve been making suncatcher after suncatcher, willing myself to hang on just a little longer. Soon I will have sun. 

I think about moving back to Kentucky sometimes. With the disease rotting away my insides and the rent payments so high they send shivers down my spine every time I check my bank account, it seems like a good idea. Only, I was just as miserable there as I am here. 

Maybe I will never find a home anywhere. Maybe I am destined to be a wanderer. Just like my ancestors. They might even be proud of me. I am restless and uneasy. Untethered and unbound. I am a ship that has become unmoored and I can’t seem to find my anchor anywhere. I still live in the apartment I once shared with a man I did not ever really know and I weep. 

Under moon-lit trees, 

she dances barefoot alone 

the ghosts, waiting, past.

Ren is a Reformed Theatre Kid (TM) turned writer whose lust for life comes from a lifetime of battles. From coming of age as a child of adoption to a 15 + year long struggle with anorexia, Ren knows what it is like to have to pull yourself out of a (sometimes very real and not at all imaginary) dumpster. Using humor, heart and authenticity, Ren strives to reach a wide audience of people with their writing. While they mostly write from their own personal experiences with mental health and abuse, they also occasionally use their knowledge to write fiction.

Ren is a published Playwright whose works have been featured as a part of “A Sketch of New York”, Manhattanville University’s “Fresh Ink” and the self published, soon to be performed “Nora, Nora, Nora”. Ren has been featured in the literary magazine “The Egg” and Northern Kentucky University’s 2018 end of the year collection.

Ren is currently a Professor for both Caldwell and Manhattanville Universities while also pursuing their Masters of Fine Arts as a teaching and tutoring fellow. Ren also holds an MFA in Performing Arts from the Savannah College of Art and Design.

Ren is, as always, incredibly grateful for all the people, trials, puppies, friends and their more-than-occasional enemies for getting them to where they are today.