Nothing matters and everything matters. Dust, ash, sunlight.
If time were an ally, it would lie in my lap and purr. Instead, it snaps in the frigid air like the cowhides once wielded by slave drivers to terrorize those bent over in the fields. Snap. Snap.
Can you count? I’m not sure. Because numbers aren’t really on my side either.
One month and six days.
The hollyhocks arrived. Two of them. Two lupines too because I read they’ll grow in the detritus under a birdfeeder. I’m gonna give clematis another go even though I’ve watched two or three or maybe even four crump before surviving a third season.
Five packs of morning glory seeds arrived. For years, one darling deep purple flower has appeared near the front stoop. I wait for it. Look for it.
This year, I didn’t want to rely on such slim odds. I didn’t want the suspense of wondering: will that morning glory return?
The seeds require scarification. “Rub them between sandpaper,” says the website, “then soak the seeds overnight.”
It is still too early to be planting in New England. Around here you wait at least until Mother’s Day, Memorial Day being better.
But how to wait, when the wish to add color and variety to the garden feels like a wish to survive? Without the garden, without the season of spring, without all that dirt beneath my fingernails, who even am I?
You’d be surprised what brings gratitude in these days of loss. Here’s one: I’m grateful I probably won’t live long enough to mark 20 years without him.
I’m grateful we can absolutely stay home this July and August. No scrambling for a destination, dog sitters, and reservations. We don’t have to go anywhere in September or October either. What a relief! What a fucking relief.
Another way the world has turned inside out.
In those last 10 days of Danny’s life, I walked over to Walgreens and bought white stickers for my calendar. Carefully, I covered up all the March hotel reservations we’d made for Montgomery and Vicksburg, for Baton Rouge and New Orleans. I didn’t want Danny to see them and feel bad that we had canceled a trip in order to be with him
“To be with him,” doesn’t begin to describe those last 10 days. He came and went like the ghost he was about to become. How little he noticed about his father or me or anything, really, made the stickers unnecessary.
The departure before the departure.
Now I can’t fathom wanting to fly to Montgomery and drive down to New Orleans. I can’t even fathom going to a beach on the North Shore because we used to visit Cape Ann as a family.
I’m busy muting words and marking posts as “not interested.” I don’t want to see references to Denver or Boulder or CU or Longmont. But after years of looking at real estate out there, it’ll take a while. And then there were all those recent searches: Reiki masters, intensive outpatient programs, post-suicide support groups, and so so many other things — all were local to Longmont and the intrusive algorithm remembers.
The pithy and sometimes wise quote-slides on Instagram about grief are another matter. They don’t spark hope, nothing could, but some speak about a path forward — and even though I have yet to believe a way forward exists, I linger on those quotes as if taking medicine.
The year of firsts. To start us off: Mother’s Day. I use the hand cream that Danny gave me last year now and then. He gave it to me in person because we were visiting Longmont last May. It’s the best kind of gift – indulgent but something I’d never have chosen for myself. I love the way the lotion smells. Unique. Not quite floral. How long will it last, I wonder every time I pump a dab into my palm.
We plan a new stoop to replace the crumbling brick one out front. It’s unsound, precarious even. Bluestone would be nice, expensive but nice. But if we’re not going to Colorado or Alabama or even to Gloucester, there are funds. The entrance to a house sets the tone, experts will tell you. We can make ours sturdier and more visually appealing.
If the season goes as expected, from the newly rebuilt stoop you’ll be able to see hollyhocks, lupines, and morning glories, plus birds flitting on and off the feeders. That might be the most extravagant pleasure I can muster this summer.
Meanwhile that box is filled with delicious rolls and soups and cookies. Thank you, Carol!
I have cooked about three times since we’ve been home. Can you imagine? Tonight, Risa brings dinner. Tomorrow, Ellen. Jane is on for Friday. The meal Rachel gave us last Friday provided at least three dinners and two lunches. We still have soups and prepared chicken dinners in the freezer from last week and the week before.
The bounty. The generosity. The care. It continues to blow me away.
