blog
This morning a wan sun shines through skies streaked with fleecy clouds and patches of pale blue. Dare I say that here and there, in ground level brush I see traces of celadon, tiny leaves so delicate and ethereal as to leave me questioning their substance. This is spring in the Midwest. This is spring in the Corona Virus pandemic. This is spring, coming as it always has, in fits and starts but ultimately in all the glorious reality of yet another season of growth.
It’s Valentine’s Day. Brilliant sunshine creates shadows on my snow-covered deck. The oaks beyond stretch tall against a sky of powder blue. Frigid cold preserves a snowfall that graces each twig and branch. I am playing Ella Fitzgerald’s version of “My Funny Valentine” and thinking of Bob. I am thinking of how he was my funny valentine. I am thinking of how his humor, so much a part of his vernacular, his take on life buoyed my spirits, caused me to laugh in light times, in dark times. He was an original. I could never reconstruct his random comments, only know they were a gift.
Its errand day and I am a widow, nearing the March 7, 2016 date my first and only love passed away four years ago. I don’t cry as often now, though quick tears can still surprise me. I am not crying now as I write, though I am remembering. I am remembering a typical Saturday with errands. My memories morph into what typical Saturdays throughout our later years became, after the kids were gone, when there were fewer deadlines, when meals could be fluid, when we could go with the flow. When spontaneity was part of the fun.
Christmas has just past. New Year events lie ahead. I’m listening to George Winston’s album, December that I must have played a hundred times over the years since it first came out. Music can pull me powerfully into another era, draw out memories once buried, cause me to relive the once upon a time, long ago’s of my 57 years of loving Bob.
Early this morning, from my bedroom perch I see an anticipatory rim of gold hovering above the tree line. I watch the sun inching higher and higher spreading its rays over a scene just short of heaven. All night while the world slept, five inches of snow fell and mounded and nearly covered autumn trees still thick with unshed leaves, red, burgundy, burnt orange and saffron peeking through. The neighbor’s maple beyond my deck, though heavy laden, gleams gold.
Dearest husband of my heart:
I am assuming you are one of the “great cloud of witnesses” written about in the
book of Hebrews. That you were privy to the ins and outs of the weekend our
beautiful granddaughter Tessa married Luke. That you smiled, and even shared
some of this joy with one of your heavenly friends, or Jesus, perhaps? Or even
that a whole contingency of those who have gone before, who loved us on earth
participated in celebration. Though I cannot know for sure I, still earth-bound, can
assume.
I’ve had a yen for “Special Juice” lately. Maybe it’s that summer has never been complete without it. Perhaps it’s that everything glorious about this late July and early August weather has been particularly “special” as well, given the Polar Vortex, the drenching May and the cold gray June we had this year. What’s more likely is that the “Special Juice” person, aka Bob Carlson is residing in heaven and no one on earth has yet been able to duplicate his perfected recipe, least of all me.
This June morning sun dapples the deck beyond my bedroom window. I hear birdsong and squirrel chatter. Light breezes ruffle oak leaves. Geranium pots shout red. It is a simple morning of good cheer, all right with the world.
On a Saturday morning like this I would relish the extra hot cup of coffee beside me, the blue berries and raspberries and yogurt breakfast. I would would be reading. Scripture, perhaps. A psalm, an excerpt from the Gospels. I would have a new memoir, a novel, or a work of non-fiction, just recommended at my finger tips. I would have checked my iPhone for email and text, the weather, world news. I might be making a mental list of errands: grocery store, wedding gift, get gas, Home Depot, the hardware store.
I buy cards for my daughters and my daughter in law. I do not buy a card for my mother, she who resides in the beautiful blue yonder, gone these 26 years. Gone to Jesus for whom she gave her best love. Gone to an unknown place I grapple with, ponder, long to understand even more now that Bob has joined her.
I sleep in the center of the bed now. Three years after my husband’s death I have moved from “my side” to this new venue. It has been a gradual, unconscious, inching toward the middle. A metaphorical grief journey of sorts. A movement toward acceptance of what is no more: two bodies, warm, entwined, holding hands before sleep, spooning through the night, comforting in storms, ancient oak branches hitting roof and deck, lightening flashing, thunder cracking safe in each others arms. No more whispered nothings, no more laughter before sleep. No more conversations when troubles loom, when possibilities are parsed, finally given over to prayers, to the Our Father. No more quiet gazing at the love of my life, a lock of silver hair gracing his brow. No more listening to the soft even breathing he takes in deep sleep.
