1. Tin Huey T-Shirt

The day Patrick asked me for a divorce, I was wearing our Tin Huey T-shirt.

It is charcoal gray and the softest cotton, thanks to decades of wear. The neck is perfectly stretched out. Just above my collar bone, there is a tear along the stitching, giving the illusion that the rest of the shirt might spontaneously unravel and fall from my body, leaving me with nothing but a ribbed cotton necklace. There are holes everywhere: under the armpits, around my torso, on my back. My favorite hole is the one along the stitching of the left sleeve, forcing it to drape down over my left bicep and expose my shoulder, as though it were some elegantly crafted evening dress. Still faintly legible across the chest is “TIN HUEY” in stenciled, white acrylic letters, cracked throughout like an antique vase. No matter how much you wash it, it smells like people, rather than detergent. I don’t wash it often, because I don’t want it to disintegrate.

The shirt first came into Patrick’s possession in 2003, when his band, the Black Keys, started garnering national attention, including a spot as the musical guest on “Late Night With Conan O’Brien.” Tin Huey’s guitarist gave it to Patrick hoping he would wear it on the show. It would be an honor, Patrick said. Patrick was obsessed with any rock band that ever came out of Akron, Ohio — from big names like Devo and Chrissie Hynde to little-known acts like Chi-Pig, the Bizarros, and, of course, Tin Huey. His uncle Ralph had played saxophone in the band. Patrick remembers his grandparents always playing their only major label release, “Contents Dislodged During Shipment,” on the hi-fi. But it wasn’t simply the band’s sound that enchanted Patrick. It was the possibility of creating something special in a seemingly unspecial town like Akron — a place where people are not known for making art but for manufacturing tires. He cherished records like the Waitresses’ “Wasn’t Tomorrow Wonderful?” because they were definitive proof that maybe he could do the same.

The night Patrick first appeared on national television, I remember thinking, “I will never forget this moment.” Sadly, more than seven years later, I have. In order to jog my memory, I search the Internet for a video of the performance. After several hours of sifting through the myriad of music videos, interviews and national TV appearances the Black Keys have made since, I begin to doubt that the moment ever happened at all — that I had made it up entirely. But then, I find it — a 3-minute, 34-second snippet of the Black Keys performing on “Conan O’Brien,” Aug. 8, 2003.

The video clip begins just as Conan is saying “… guests from Akron, Ohio.” The audience’s cheers quickly fade into the signature riff of “Thickfreakness” — a cascade of reverb echoing from the guitar of Pat’s band mate, Dan Auerbach. I know that riff well — I’ve heard it, literally, hundreds of times. I know when Dan has hit the wrong note, slyly sliding the fuzz into the right one. I also know when Patrick hits in too soon or too late on his drum kit. On “Conan,” I notice that he hits in too early and is playing the song too fast, probably because he is nervous. Dan is forced to catch up. The audience probably has no idea — but I do. Even seven years later.

When the camera finally pans away from Dan singing, I see that Patrick is, in fact, wearing the Tin Huey shirt and I’m ecstatic by this vindication. My memory is no fake. But my victory is too quickly displaced by a sudden surge of tears that surprise me as they stream down my cheeks. He looks so young. Our T-shirt is not yet full of holes. It fits him perfectly — hugging his tall, fit frame. I can tell that I gave him the haircut he is sporting. I can remember how I used to cut his hair — leaving it long in the front and close to the head in the back. I would cut it in the dining room of our apartment, while he sat in a chair, a hand towel draped around his shoulders. When I would shape his bangs, I’d often pause to kiss him on the lips, just before moving to the sides of his head, where I’d thin out the hair that sat over the arms of his glasses.

I am certain that he immediately drove home after the taping of the show so that we could watch it together. We would have been sitting on the turquoise futon in our living room in front of our hand-me-down TV. We’d be sipping on beers, high-fiving, and chain-smoking. He’d keep glancing over at me, looking for my approval as I stared at the screen, and then I’d pat his hands with giddy glee. He’d then point out that he played too fast and, even though I noticed it too, I’d kiss away his self-criticism and tell him it was just perfect. And then he’d say, with a glint of embarrassment in his tired, blue eyes: “Do you mind if I watch it again?” And I’d laugh at him and say: “OF COURSE NOT, DUMMY!”

And now, I must stop the clip and close my browser, because I’m suddenly overwhelmed with the memory of how good we once were — a fact I don’t allow myself to indulge, because it hurts too much. Because I don’t know that boy anymore. Or that girl, for that matter.

So, instead, I try to remind myself of who we are now and why it’s best that we are over. I think about the day he asked me for a divorce. Aug. 4, 2009. Just two days earlier, I had left for Warsaw, Poland, on a two-month research trip for a book I was writing. It was one of the few times in our relationship that I had done the leaving. I always feared that if we were both bouncing around the world for the sake of our careers, we’d never last.

Right before our phone conversation, I was awoken from a nap by a nasty dream. That’s when I called him, the chalky taste of afternoon sleep still in my mouth. And that is when he said, in so many words, that he didn’t want to be with me anymore.

“You mean, you want a divorce?” I asked.

As I sat there waiting for his answer, an ocean between us, I rubbed the cracked letters of the Tin Huey T-shirt into my chest, like salve into a wound, my worst nightmare before me.

2. A silk-screened poster from the Sept. 22, 2000, Mary Timony (of Helium) concert in Oberlin, Ohio.

I was 19 when we first started dating. Patrick was 20, just six months older. We had known each other since our sophomore year in high school. He was tall and lanky, with pockmarked skin and thick black-rimmed glasses. “An indie rock Abraham Lincoln” is how a friend once described him. We made a comical pair. I was half his size, though my face was just as long and angular. I was just as frenetic and mouthy.

It was one of the best summers I have ever had. We bought matching ’70s roller skates from the thrift store and rode around parking lots late at night, his car stereo blasting Thin Lizzy or Pavement. We’d sneak into bars and order cocktails like sloe gin fizzes and Rumple Minze and then dance around like maniacs. We agreed that we were soul mates because we both loved coconut cream pie, salami with mustard, and Camel Lights soft packs. We made paintings, mixed tapes and fanzines, and planned for a future in which we’d always be doing that: making things together. We even started our own little band, just the two of us, sitting in his bedroom, writing silly pop songs about Vespas that we’d then record onto his four-track. In August, when I had to go back to Oberlin, Patrick cried. He didn’t want me to go.

It was when he was up on one of his usual visits that we got word Mary Timony would be playing a show on campus. She was the reigning queen of indie rock, the former lead singer of Helium, who’d written one of our favorite songs, “Pat’s Trick.” “We should try to get on that show!” Patrick said. I handed the show organizers a tape of our songs and that was it. We were the opening act for one of our favorite musicians ever. That’s how it always worked with Patrick. He always did what he said he was gonna do.

Patrick named our band Churchbuilder — a bizarre and esoteric reference to “The Eyes of Tammy Faye,” one of his favorite movies at the time. Unfortunately, we soon realized the limitations of my musical skills. For me, singing and playing keyboards proved as challenging as discrete math. Our little duo wouldn’t be able to pull it off without help. We quickly recruited a couple of friends to perform with us. We taught them the very simple structures of our four modest songs and then, together, learned how to play “Tugboat” by Galaxie 500 as the final number. Five songs, 20 or so minutes. That would have to do.

That night at the student union, somewhere between the second and third song, I realized that I was enjoying myself. There was a rush to being onstage, having people cheer you on, stare up at you from the crowd like that, laughing at your stage banter. And then, after the show, strangers coming up to you, wanting to get to know you, genuinely excited to talk to you.

After that show, Churchbuilder continued for a bit longer. A small indie label out of Brooklyn, N.Y., put out our record, “Patty Darling.” We played a handful of gigs throughout the Midwest and the East Coast. We were lucky if 10 people showed up, but we never cared. At least, I didn’t. I had no designs on being a rock star. I wanted to be an academic, maybe a writer. But it was different for Patrick.

At the time, Patrick also began a project with a guy named Dan Auerbach. Dan and Pat had played music a couple of times in high school. I knew Dan because he lived across the street from my ex-boyfriend. Dan was a soccer jock who idolized Dave Matthews and G. Love and the Special Sauce. Bands I despised. He was a real macho type who walked around town like a bulldog. He listened to Howard Stern, called his girlfriends “babe” and referred to indie pop as “gay.” I never did like Dan much. And I know he never liked me. He and Patrick were complete opposites with little in common except for one thing: insatiable ambition.

We kept little evidence of our time in Churchbuilder. I think its existence embarrassed Patrick once the Black Keys catapulted onto the A-list of gritty, serious rock bands. For Christmas one year, I framed the poster from the Mary Timony show along with a dozen Black Keys ones as his present. It ended up on the second floor of our house, in my office.

3. “Crazy Rhythms” by the Feelies (on white vinyl)

In the early days of the Black Keys, Dan’s girlfriend, Tarrah, and I would accompany Dan and Pat on tour, not because it was such great fun, but because that was the only way we could ever see them. It would be the four of us, piled into Pat’s baby blue Plymouth Voyager minivan that stunk of boys. Tarrah and I would help load equipment in and out of clubs, drive and sell merchandise at shows.

During one of the more grueling tours, the band played a show in Athens, Ga. Directly next to the venue was a record store that specialized in rare records. On the wall, they displayed a copy of the Feelies’ “Crazy Rhythms” in white vinyl.

Patrick and I were huge fans of the Feelies — tragic pop songwriters from the late ’80s who gave up rock stardom for quieter lives. We particularly liked listening to them in the spring, while we sat out on the porch and pounded Belgian beer. The store was selling the record for $25. When Patrick saw the price tag, his face dropped. We couldn’t justify spending that much. He shrugged and walked next door for sound check.

I stepped out of the store for a quick second to think. I lit a cigarette and rummaged through my bag for a bank receipt. My checking account balance: $14.28.

At the time, I had one credit card. A Discover card, no less. It had a $200 limit. About $50 of that was left. But the store wouldn’t take credit. I went to an ATM and promptly withdrew what was left on the card, wincing at the thought of the inflated interest rate on such a cash advance. I then headed back to the store and bought the record.

After sound check, I gave it to Pat. His eyes almost bugged out of his head with guilt and gratitude. “But we can’t afford this,” he said. I just smiled.

In the end, when it came to dividing our 500 records, we didn’t really fight. He told me to take what I wanted and leave the rest. I tried to be fair and remember exactly what I had brought into the relationship and what I had acquired, personally, during it. Bikini Kill’s “Pussy Whipped” and Nico’s “Chelsea Girl” were no-brainers, as were almost all of the bebop records that I had purchased during a “jazz” phase. He could keep the John Cale. And though I wanted to take Nick Drake’s “Bryter Layter,” it had belonged to his father originally.

The Feelies was the toughest to decide upon. Sure, I’d bought it for him. But there was so little for me to recover of what I gave that relationship. Most of my giving was immaterial. The Feelies record was the only tangible memory of my sacrifice, some physical evidence of my dedication.

A few days after I’d split up our records, he sent me an e-mail. “Did you take that Feelies record? I really want it. It has special memories for me,” he wrote. “You bought it for me when we had no money.”

“Exactly,” I wrote back.

4. A big-ass dining room table

The day I went to our old house to separate records, I also had to place Post-it notes on every piece of furniture I wanted to take with me. The Post-it notes were his idea. He also told me to take anything we’d acquired as a wedding present, including the dining room table that we’d purchased with a gift certificate from one of his relatives. Funny, since I was probably the least ecstatic by the prospect of marriage in the first place.

Two years into our relationship, my parents got divorced. It was a nasty, protracted legal battle. By the time they finally signed the papers in 2005, my mother was basically homeless, my brother had suffered a nervous breakdown, and I found myself at the start of a drinking problem. As for my father, he ran off with another woman to Santiago, Chile, to begin a new life. A fan of marriage, I was not.

Still, when Patrick proposed, I said yes, because what girl would be dumb enough to refuse a marriage offer from the love of her life? Plus, we’d been together six years already and it seemed like the logical next step in a relationship I’d completely built my life around.

We were in Chicago when he did it. He was playing two shows there that weekend. He got us an extra-fancy room at a nice downtown hotel — something really contemporary and swank with expensive lighting. We probably looked pretty goofy in that room, in our secondhand clothes that stunk of cigarette smoke. We overtipped the staff, a gesture that begged: “Thanks for not kicking us out.” It was a far cry from the literally bloodied mattresses of the trucker motels in which we used to sleep.