I often sit
at this desk and write. Writing sets my soul free and sometimes the inspiration
for what I write comes from my view at this window. Now that I’ve hung a hummingbird
feeder above the fence in my front yard, for example, I watch them endlessly
from here, which is the reason I hung it there. I also know, of the four I see
regularly at the feeder, which one is the bully bird and which ones are the
chickens. Poor little insecure things. They really ought to stand up and fight
for their rights. But I don’t speak hummingbird, so they don’t listen to me.
I’m
witness to a lot of life in this front row seat, gazing past my front yard to
the road that separates it from the neighbor’s pasture. The goats across the
street are an endless source of entertainment. You might think the brown one is
a deer, but even she knows she’s not graceful enough to launch herself Bambi-style
up and over the chain link fencing. She’s content to just be a goat. And the
two black ones who love to rest on the ground side by side facing opposite
directions blend together so well, I mistakenly think there’s a Pushmepullyou
living over there.
Families stroll
together past my house all the time, pausing to admire the livestock in the neighbor’s
pasture and disappointing the Pushmepullyou’s who were expecting snacks from
them. Dogs walk their people, always barking a surly “How’s it goin’?” to their
incarcerated canine cousins. Kids ride their bikes and, most recently, pair up to
sail by on electric scooters, posture impeccable, hair flowing out behind them
like they’re posing for a shampoo ad. Just now, somebody’s dad did that, standing
tall in his white dress shirt and black pants while his tie flew across his
body in the breeze, hands holding on tight to his scooter. It made me laugh. Guess
he gets good mileage riding to church that way.
Laughter
is good. I was crying until he flew by, and just like that, my spirits lifted.
Then a friend called with her own story of heartache. We talked through the
details and then something made us both laugh and two hearts lifted together
out of the pain for a while. Sometimes, in the middle of my tears, usually when
someone catches me swimming in them, I shift gears and make a joke so I can stop
crying. Tears come and go, like that well-dressed dad on his scooter. This I
know.
It's been three years since I last saw my husband alive. Barely. But alive nevertheless.
Three years ago today was the last time he mouthed the words, “I love you” to me. The last time I held
his hand and felt him squeeze back his love for me. The last time. Three years.
It’s a long time. And it was yesterday.
So, the
tears are flowing all out of rhythm, punctuated by moments of much needed
laughter. What a ride this grief experience is. I’ve been in my office a lot
this week, glancing out my giant window, reading and printing off all the blog posts
I’ve written about life since Rob died, one hundred thirty-six posts in all. Plus
this one, one more. I need to empty the trash can on the floor beside me before it overflows with used tissues. It’s been emotional like that all week, leading up to this
weekend’s painful remembrance. Maybe today is turning out to be harder than
tomorrow will be. It's rougher than I expected, though tomorrow is the day I told him good-bye. I don't know. I don't know much of anything anymore.
A friend
of mine, who will see the fourth anniversary of her own husband’s passing in April, calls this a Marker Day, and the days of dread leading up to it the Season of
Sorrow. Maybe there will be relief on the other side when Day One of the fourth
year begins for me. If not, there is always this big, sunny window where I can
sit and wait for something to happen that makes me laugh. I desperately need
the release in laughter.
And right
on cue, Church Dad sailed by on his scooter again. I think I saw a Bible
tucked into the back of his trousers.
I bet Rob
is laughing, too.
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