I’ve landed here and I’m wondering if this has been the bottom. Will I climb up now? Or will I wallow here a bit longer.
“Here” is a place apart. Apart from my husband. Apart from my kids. Apart from my heart. Most notably, though, apart from beauty.
This is what I’m missing these days: color, line, form, a well-spun tale, a picture formed with words and animated by hands gesturing wildly.
Is this grief? Is this whole separation thing a part of it? Is realizing I’m doing it a part of the healing? Or am i just wallowing, as I am wont to do?
I’m letting my anger take me places that are not holy and I am desperate for a bit of the divine: a glimpse of purple sunset; silky fabric of rose and yellow that caresses skin like love; a baby swaddled in flannel, one fat fist stabbing at things adults won’t see; long-haired calico cats grooming each other in the sunlight on a beat-up wooden floor; my daughter’s face turned up, lips puckered, awaiting a good-night kiss.
I’m swimming back toward them across this languid, sorrow-filled lake. I laughed out loud the other day and I saw a kid’s head swivel, quickly, and I realized she knew she recognized that sound, but it was such a long time since she’d heard it ring out like that.
I see the signs of the spring thaw, even though it is September. I’ll reach for that distant shore, now. Seeking beauty, seeking the prickle of heat beauty brings–the prickle of limbs left sleeping that begin to wake.
Man, how do you all endure this. How do we all endure this?