I’ve walked the streets of small towns, big cities, beaches, exotic continents, parks and neighborhoods, all alone. I’ve made most decisions big and small alone. I’ve trod the hardest trails alone: father’s death; mother’s deterioration; divorce; child’s illness; career dissatisfaction. I didn’t know what to say when asked by the partners and friends I’d kept at the periphery. Even I didn’t see the invisible barrier.

I wouldn’t call myself a loner. I have pockets of people: new friends to make; old friends to catch up on; and calendared gatherings. But I’m just fine alone—even in a movie theater—that most forbidding of lone adventures.

Some came closer, spun out, and hated the not-knowing and shifting priorities. Some would have been there for me had I let them. And some got through and took a bit of the strain from my tired bones.

You might not have noticed just how alone I am. After all, I lived well-loved with my parents for eighteen years. I spent thirty years as part of one couple or another. But coupling can be so isolating. At its worst, it steals the generous mantle of solitude and replaces it with missed-opportunity.

In unconnected hours face-to-face, drenched in the ice-water of failed intimacy, alone finally becomes loneliness. My strong right-side withered under worm-eaten embraces, preoccupied hearts, and habitual sex. The unearthly weight of sadness, the black weight of doubt, the sharp stones of anxiety, sent me sprained and sprawling atop the original ruin.

You might not know it’s ok to be alone. But alone stands on two strong legs. Feet may tire, shoulders ache, and breath rasp, but the slow stride uphill can continue almost indefinitely, alone.

Once again I visit that stumbling, paved, too-crowded, terrain. The air is heavy with my beautiful romance. My heart longs for him, for that connection. Quickly, I shift into reality mode. No, I’m done with criticism.

I didn’t feel this longing when my marriage split apart. Yes, I sought every bit of flesh we could muster together, to tide me over the summer months. A long marriage stocks sex like a bait shop stocks lures. Let’s just say it was the last marital commodity to lose its charm.

In those days, my body’s insistent desire came from the fear of alone-ness: am I undesired and undesirable? But longing, no–not longing. All the love and affection seemed dried up and blown away. After all those futile attempts to make the marriage work there was no more fantasy left.

Fantasy is a huge part of romance: a good, growing, expanding part—necessary. But, it can get out hand. Somewhere along the line, that last romance took a breakneck gallop to fantasy land. It was spurred on by the thousand miles of distance between us. When I longed for reassurance I could revisit any one of a dozen favorite emails. When I craved his hands across my body I could relive a favorite encounter. More and more the fantasy man replaced the real and infrequent lover. Reality could disappoint and fantasy never does; he became his own rival.

And now, months after the end, standing here in his town, my world becomes tumbled with love, lust and longing. I feel it grab hold of me again, pulling me under in breathless distraction. The fantasy life I dreamed with my lover? Gone. Tender anniversaries linger. Off balance like this, I might regret the break-up and give my heart away again. It’s such a bad habit, but so familiar.

I’m old enough to know that love can end. I know that happiness is what I give to myself. I seek ground to stop this restless earth from spilling me on my side. Stepping onto the airplane helps me shake away the dream-shards and drive longing back underground, so I can catch myself and balance on my heart.