|Samhain's Fire (M.A. Reilly, 2012)|
It's like testing the heat of water with an elbow. Inch it into and out of a memory and see what heat rises, what exactly can be tolerated. And then, only then, place one foot following the next, edging, edgy until submerged in what has been.
Widows test memory, wait and see what scalds, what soothes, what passes unnoticed.
With acceptance comes a manageable sorrow and a weighed sadness that is a whole body experience. Even my toes know its stink. Some days, I am full of it. And yet others, I can't remember its name.
Originally, the old English word, sæd, meant having one's fill with food--feeling satiated. Across the years the meaning changed and yet the sense of heaviness remained. And it is that heaviness that weighs me, sends me out walking miles and miles each day.
Who knew grief could be tempered by a body in motion?
I am careful not to take too much of a backward glance to those closing days and hours when Rob was crossing from here to there. I think of this as we have just passed Samhain--when the veil between here and there is at its thinnest. If I knew a spell I would have spoke it aloud these last few nights, called up my husband to tell him how I was watching over our boy, keeping him steeped in love.
But I know no spells. Just these words.