Today is the day. A year ago is when I left in the middle of the night. I have mixed feelings that depend if it is dark or light outside.

At night, with this cold snap, my body remembers what my mind has not dwelt upon. I shudder to remember his spit hitting my skin. I hear his voice with those terrible words condemning me, hating me. My head spins to catch movement out of the corner of my eye, involuntarily afraid. It takes deliberateness to continue walking forward through the night, reminding myself that I left in enough time. That we are safe. That we are free. That life is better. Once I’m inside, I sigh and thank God for wholeness, healing, and recovery.

In the day, I turn my face up to the white sunshine and smile. The days are golden; there’s a bounce in my step. My children laugh and our days Know Joy. I’m in love and my skin remembers being kissed in places that had never known another’s lips, so soft, like a prayer. It’s amazing that parts of me were virginal even after a long marriage: that’s what happens when one man refused to touch and another embraces the entirety. I frequently sigh in contentment, feeling a glow radiate from deep within me.

So many corners of life redeemed.

The acknowledgment of a year’s passing will not be anything notably significant. We will trick-or-treat and carve pumpkins. We will laugh. We will eat and share with neighbors. Children will run off their sugar-highs in cool grass under starlight and sleep in peace. I will probably make long love to that miracle of a man and awaken to fresh coffee and a hot breakfast. My parents will relax. It will be what we never had: Normal. That is more profound than a thousand sentimental ceremonies could ever be. Quietly I will add a bead to the chain I’ve been building, the moon count, the notches of healing that I’ve traced.

It feels like relief, a long walk through open space and fields, arms raised and face smiling, unafraid. I feel a small urge to dance in bare feet.