It started with a banana, and ended with cherries..

My soon-to-be ex-husband has a lot of great and admirable qualities.

I learned a lot from him during the close to two decades we spent as husband and wife. In my mind, we were the actual Sultans of Swing. I liked to say that and joke with anybody who would listen, which was both a play on his last name and a nod to the 1970s Dire Straits rock anthem. A polyglot with advanced degrees from esteemed British Universities (U of Exeter and Surrey, with an MSc in Criminology), the sultan was born in Kenya and speaks Swahili among his five languages. I didn’t learn much in the way of that speak, save for some fun facts like Hakuna Matata is an actual and logical phrase Pumba didn’t make up. I also learned and remember the word for fruit, which my ex not only said was “matunda”, but he used that word for several of his passwords.

Funny that he entrusted me with his password, but no detailed account of his painful romantic past, which included a long-term relationship that was followed by a break-up that was devastating for him, Charlotte, and the children. Three beautiful (and I mean ridiculously so) children were caught in the middle of the end of that love story. To be a loving wife, I was always an advocate for them as well as his ex, Charlotte, because I believe family is incredibly important, and once you love somebody, even if it ends, it’s helpful and healthy to maintain understanding and sincere friendship if that’s possible. In my opinion, that means getting past one’s egos. I am a firm proponent of friendship and, as I age, I realize more and more that a lot of true friendship is built on not only listening, but being invested. Not only showing up for the good times, but holding your friend’s hand through the bad. Not standing in judgment when affection works better. And, most especially, being considerate of each other’s feelings and needs, or else what is the actual point, she asks rhetorically? I learned that from matunda, from fruit in any language, if I look back on my five-year-old self and realize that seminal moment in time which started with the plastic banana.

There was a fair at Harrison Elementary, a school my older brother and I attended. You could move from classroom to classroom to shop while items were priced low and literally for pennies to make the shopping experience attainable and affordable for the kindergarten set. My parents trusted my judgment and my ability to tell time by allowing me a set schedule to walk around with my friend, Lisa, before meeting back up with them. Upon coming up on a table of colorful and child-friendly knick-knacks that were for sale, I spotted a plastic banana designed as a necklace on a string. The green, plastic top screwed open and contained that powder candy so popular back in the day, which now I fear for the ingredients and figure it should probably be banned by the FDA. I reached excitedly in my pocket for a penny to purchase before Lisa cried out that she wanted the plastic banana more. I explained gently that I saw it first and I was going to buy it. She was near tears, and I comforted her by saying I didn’t want to hurt her heart, so I decided, for the sake of each other and our friendship, neither one of us would purchase the coveted and would-be-cherished piece. I put it back logically and to my word. I was five, and five decades later, I am stunned by my maturity, which I credit to my late and darling mother, who spoke to me in a respectful manner. Viscerally, I still can recall the shock and pain of that decision as though it was yesterday and how my mother would never let me call people out on their cruel behavior, a noble trait but one I blame for her untimely death. I am quite convinced she sublimated her hurt, which manifested in an ugly disease. But I digress. On that fateful day, we went our separate ways and when perusing other items with my parents, I spotted Lisa with both her mother and father and the coveted banana around her neck that was rightfully mine. She obviously went back and bought it and never even said sorry or asked how I felt about that. Alas, she was only five, so it’s forgivable, but still stings the heart of my inner child.

My husband is not keen to sign the divorce papers, even though we have been separated and living very divergent lives on either side of The Atlantic. It was sweet for him to say I should move my elderly father back to Britain, but he and I both know that was more lip service than a proper or feasible plan. I wait anxiously for the delivery of my personal effects I had forgotten about, which he offered to FedEx post fires. It’s now over a year since that offer was made. Considering I lost everything but forgot about a closet I was maintaining in his grade two listed, I really want my stuff. That closet contained very symbolic items of clothing I am still very much invested in. It’s hard to rebuild a home and a life post-apocalypse, so remnants from the past often work as a salve. If I’m honest, the only way to make it work post-trauma is through the support of friends. One such friend asked me to be a guest on her Apple podcast called The Final Straw, where people share that pivotal moment when they knew the relationship was done and dusted, truly over. I talked about my marriage and, of course, I would need to hear the episode to confirm, but I think I went to the taping with mad respect in my heart for the intimacy and commitment the Sultan and I once shared. It’s my prayer that it sounds that sincere when the rest of the world hears it. My only regret? I wish I had chosen to speak about how I decided to finally end a friendship. Not the one with the man who taught me the word for fruit was matunda in Swahili, but with the friend that took a cherry or two to remind me I don’t have to be in any more relationships that make me unhappy. She literally popped my cherry on what friendship can look like when it’s devastating to one’s soul.

We all lost a lot during the Palisades fires. That’s a given.

Regrettably, she lost her way and her place to create and to conceive of some really extraordinary art pieces. I often admired her work and wanted to commission a painting when I was settled. The state of settled never came; I didn’t go back to work full force as I became a primary caregiver to my aging father, so I circled my career as a primary school teacher, which didn’t leave much in the way of disposable income for expensive art. However, I remained steadfast and often said that should I go back to being a successful screenwriter, I would love to purchase a canvas of two cherries, one of her signature pieces. I supported said friend’s talent by making endless introductions and shooting a video vignette to highlight her God-given abilities. I listened for hours about the demise of her relationship also with a Brit for whom I know his name, his two children’s names, his ex’s name, how they met, where they lived, the relationship with her agent, the loss of her china left abroad, and what car of hers the vengeful ex sold without warning. In sharp contrast, she doesn’t know the Sultan’s name because she never cared to ask. I heard lengthy accounts of her pain and shared my beloved therapist, whom she saw for a short time, but when I told her he was sick with acute myeloid leukemia, she asked me not to speak of it to her since it was too triggering, as her father died from the same form of cancer. My mother also had a painful cancer death, but she couldn’t tell you the year or the type because she never asked once. She looked for a source of comfort and health in Santa Barbara and now enjoys a strong support system there because I introduced her to a woman who literally gave herself the nickname “Grateful”. I’m so happy the artist is finally so beautiful, so transcendent, and so healthy, and when I found my rental, it was SHE who said if I provided the canvas, she would paint for me a set of my own cherries to frame the wall space where my piano sits. Suffice it to say, I was delighted! I symbolically picked a canvas that was a London townscape that she could paint over the demise of her engagement and the end of my marriage. And she did beautifully. The only thing she didn’t do was give me the painting. She instead stalled and said she needed it to show people what she could do, as she was hurting financially, and I said okay, of course. She never spoke of the painting again, and anytime we connected, she would chastise me, especially that she would rather speak than text, and I couldn’t think of anything worse. She made me uncomfortable in her judgment of me, especially offering unsolicited advice about how I needed AA, which struck me as odd because anybody who is my actual friend knows I don’t partake in libations. I simply don’t have the calories to waste. I didn’t particularly want to invite her to my birthday party, but it was gracious of her to come, even though I couldn’t bring myself to have a moment’s conversation with her because the state of our friendship was in limbo. Not only because of the cherries; that was a mere symptom of the diseased relationship. More so, because NOT ONCE in the history of our friendship, pre or post fires, knowing the complete heartache I am suffering in basically watching my father die as she has already sadly had to endure, NOT ONCE has she texted or written to ask me how he’s doing. Not once…So when I took it upon myself to ask what the state of affairs was regarding the painting, she barked bitterly We have not talked in a long time, intimating I didn’t deserve her talent and that she made the executive decision to gift it to her mother (who is a gem) because her mother lost everything in the fires. Clearly she forgot I did as well as also forgot her promise, which I realize was a gift and hers to pull back…That’s fine, I replied. I thought logically and advised I would like the canvas replaced so that I could commission another artist like my friend Ellie to imagine something for over my piano. Ellie has always said you tell me the size and what you want and I will paint it for you, but I have never taken her up on it because the loss of her Malibu home and artists’ retreat has been devastating enough. When I made that request to my former friend last Saturday about replacing the canvas I bought, she said she would pay for what I paid before she asked if I had been drinking and then suggested I wasn’t texting to her with respect when it was actually she who was doing the gaslighting. I have the receipts. I also have a lot of respect for people, artists, and fruit, especially stone fruit, which really only gets its moment in July and August. But what I’m realizing is I didn’t have enough respect for that little five-year-old who deserved that banana when it was mine. Or the woman now who heard an offer, accepted it, and then was shamed for asking what happened to those cherries, which is neither here nor there. Cherries also get a bad rap for how expensive they can be, and the value of that cherry painting is now priceless. It cost the artist a sincere friend who once loved her.

In the end, I realize something very important. There’s enough fruit in the world to be enjoyed by everybody. And there are enough people for me, the uber talented albeit temperamental artist, and all of mankind to have friends who really care and never judge unless asked to do so…Maybe I will find a new one, and we can go cherry picking or start a journey of cherry picking friends together.