VALENTINE'S DAY, 2020...

VALENTINE'S DAY, 2020...

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.

ERRANDS...A WIDOW'S MUSINGS

ERRANDS...A WIDOW'S MUSINGS

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. 

WIDOW TALES, ON BEING A WIDOW AT CHRISTMAS, YEAR 4...

WIDOW TALES, ON BEING A WIDOW AT CHRISTMAS, YEAR 4...

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.

THE GLORY OF AN AUTUMN SNOWSTORM...

THE GLORY OF AN AUTUMN SNOWSTORM...

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.

A LETTER TO MY DEAR ONE IN HEAVEN, WEDDING MEMORIES...

A LETTER TO MY DEAR ONE IN HEAVEN, WEDDING MEMORIES...

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.

SPECIAL JUICE AND OTHER FOOD GROUPS...

SPECIAL JUICE AND OTHER FOOD GROUPS...

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.

THE RICH BEAUTY OF ORDINARY TIME...

THE RICH BEAUTY OF ORDINARY TIME...

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.

THE CENTER OF THE BED AND WHAT STILL REMAINS...

THE CENTER OF THE BED AND WHAT STILL REMAINS...

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.

"THIN PLACE" REFLECTIONS...

"THIN PLACE" REFLECTIONS...

Today is the third anniversary of my husband’s death. His vital spirit departed his earthly body at 12:10 AM, Monday, March 7, 2016. Three years gone like yesterday or three years gone like a lifetime ago. I see his last breaths, long, slow and then stilled. I watch the color fade, feel the warmth diminish. His spirit taking flight. Despite our agony, our profound sadness, it is a Holy time, a thin place, the diaphanous gauze that separates heaven and earth, life and death nearly indistinct.