Pluviophile

It was 102 degrees outside today, but tonight I’m listening to rain on the windows, punctuated by occasional claps of thunder. It’s my secret place, inside my little garage apartment. The window across from the sofa where I’m seated looks out into a foggy, drenched forest framed by window panes that are trailed with falling rain.

It’s so realistic, I’m always shocked when I step outside my room and discover the sidewalks are still dry.

You can find anything on YouTube.

I really miss Rob tonight. He and I loved rain. Chased it at every opportunity, even when we visited his home state of Florida. You wouldn’t think they’d have droughts there, but ever since beach high rises took over the coastlines, you’ve got to go pretty far inland to find a good thunderstorm now. But we did it. We both loved wild weather. We’d jump in the car and head for the dark gray horizon, driving until the water pummeled us and we couldn’t hear each other above the noisy storm.

There’s a noisy storm in my heart tonight, but I didn’t go looking for it. This one chases after me. Three months ago, twelve weeks ago today, I stood in a hospital room and told Rob it was all right to leave. It was all right to go be with Jesus. I wish he hadn’t believed me. I’m so tired of this unfamiliar thing called ‘carving out a new life for myself.’ What was wrong with the old one? That’s the question of the year. Nothing, I suppose. It’s just that it left me, too.

I’m finally getting painful details wrapped up. I had to gather the tax info alone this year. I couldn’t figure out why I dreaded it so much until I made myself focus on it so I could make the deadline. Every receipt represents the normal life we used to share. All our typical meds, his and mine. Our habitual charitable contributions. The mortgage interest on the home we owned together. His signature was everywhere, splashed carelessly across documents as if he could do it anytime he wanted to. I could feel the indentation on some of them still and my eyes grew blurry as I traced the outline of the name I love so much.

Next week the sale of my house in Heber—our house—finally closes, as will another piece of that heartbreaking chapter of my life. But at least I won’t be making payments anymore on a home I haven’t lived in for four months. All the painful insurance monies are safely deposited now, too. Soon, I can just get down to the business of grieving and rebuilding and recovering instead of putting Rob’s life to rest the same way we’ll put his body to rest two short months from now.

I wish that part was behind me, too. I’ve wept over that today, as well.

I still can’t believe he’s gone. Everyday, I expect him to walk through the door so this nightmare can go away. But he never does. I long to dream of him at night, to be held in the safe embrace that always calmed my fears. But the one time he showed up in my dreams, after I begged God to allow it, I woke up and was crushed to remember once more that it’s no longer my reality. Maybe dreams like that aren’t a good idea after all.

“You’re still in the early stages of grief,” my counselor reminds me from time to time. That’s never good news. It helps me give myself grace and compassion while I grieve over my darling for as long as it takes, but I think it’s going to take a long time. The tears come on their own timetable but, when they do, they seem to last forever.

Just like the video loop of rain I’ve been watching and listening to for the last two hours. The rain never stops. The gray is constant. The only interruption is thunder, the voice of the storm. I'm staring at a tv screen, watching a night sky grieve.

You really can find anything on YouTube.