I found a bookmark in one of my husband’s books.
It was one that I’d given him years ago – a delicate watercolor with a calligraphed quote:
We need to have people… to whom we can turn, knowing that being with them is coming home. – B. Cooke
I looked at it and was hit with a realization.
When my husband died nineteen months ago, I lost my home.
Oh, I didn’t change my address, but my house became an unknown country. I lived my daily life; I ate and paid the bills; I did my laundry and dragged myself out for walks. I traveled to Italy and Ireland. I did my work and was lovingly tended to by family and friends.
But each time I returned and put the key in the door, it was a foreign land.
I couldn’t understand the language of his absence.
And somewhere along the way, my writing words became scattered, too.
The work in progress was left to simmer on the back burner, tucked away in a writing folder on my laptop. Occasionally I’d feel something stirring and revisit it. But all I could manage was to adjust the heat and let it simmer a little more.
Apparently, grief will do all this.
Everyday things become big things, a wall too high to climb. I’d look at the wall and exhaustion would overtake me. Maybe tomorrow, I would think.
He told me I’d be okay.
Before he died. And after.
I trust him.
My address remains the same but it’s a new home.
Things are being rearranged – not the least of which is my mind. I’m learning a new song. And my writing has moved up from the back burner.
The void is softening; it will never disappear. But there is room around it now.
I planted flowers this summer. I found some beauty and peace.
And my words are returning. I’m venturing further into this new country I call home.
I’m okay.
