The wind rustling through the trees is so familiar to a life long ago. I remember lying in bed in my most favorite homes we ever shared together. The warm breeze bringing peace in the turmoil that was the now. Where did we go left? When did I make you believe I had just thrown my hands up?
That somehow this.
Us.
Was not enough.
I wonder when that feeling will return. If it’s even possible to move forward while frozen. Endless winter is my reality. Always.
The thaw comes. Bringing hope. The cruelest of all the emotions. Father time laughs in my face as I attempt to build something… anything steady. I find it funny that you were a contractor, destruction and production day and day out, yet I can’t figure out how to get the damn cover off my light on my ceiling. I can’t patch a hole in the wall. I can’t even put air in my tires. It’s hard not to feel less then as I stumble across the gravel you have left behind.
Still.
Grief brings gifts.
I know. I know.
It truly does. It brings everything. Good, bad, the silence. The opportunity to grow in the raw, almost everything starts as a nothing. Bring in the mortar. Leave the lumber on my back porch with instructions muddled by the babel of a thousand languages. Help me build my foundation to what will become my safe place. Something neither of us has known but I pray you have found. All I ask of you is to place my necessary materials in a way that I know I am not alone as I struggle.
Destruction.
I look to the floors remembering the imperfections you would speak of. Anywhere we went you too looked to the floors. When the walls begin to crumble and the weight gets weighty I long to be with the floors like somehow that would mean that I was still with you in some mental plain we had created unknowingly.
Perhaps I am unraveling.
Again.
The Optimistic Widow 