|Passageway (M.A. Reilly, England, 2014)|
I think it was warm, unseasonably so, the afternoon Rob died. I hardly left his side those last three weeks and details like air temperature and the presence and absence of sunshine eclipse me now. It was late winter and I do recall thinking how the day was so like when my mother died--a too beautiful spring day when it ought to have been storming and grey and cold.
There's so much I do not know, less I remember. So much I continue to feel even though the shock of my husband's death remains. With the change of season, I have begun to refill planters with annuals--a task I've done since we moved to this house 14 years ago. Every spring I find a new method to transform the side patio and the front steps into gardens.
All week I have been noticing the singleton bird, resting on a wire, perched on the bird bath, resting on the side mirror of my car. I wonder if my sighting of birds alone are a sign of Rob, or perhaps from Rob? Who can know such things?
What I do know is that grief is multidimensional and happens in waves. It swamps a body as it washes. A baptism of sorts. And though grief may not be pathological, the intensity of feeling is worrisome. When will I ever feel like me again? Will I? I wonder. And isn't this simple question at the heart of the matter? Who am I now? Where might I find myself?
I realize that most days I am waiting for Rob to come home as if he was out for the afternoon, or perhaps away for a brief bit of time. I am waiting. Holding my breath and waiting.