Today I feel blue
Today I feel blue, weighted down, needing to express the tears pooling in my eyes. Nothing is right. The sun is shining here in Mesa, but it's too cold to sit outside in the morning to write (as I'd hoped for); I get easily disappointed or have unexpected sneaker waves of emotion that knock me off my feet and drag me down in the undertow. The only comforts are the warm water of a bath, being alone, or curling up in Amy's arms under many blankets to stave off the cold that comes from the inside out. This grief is sometimes a familiar old friend... we take walks, finish each other's sentences, know exactly when to pause and when to move on. Other times grief is a sneaky bastard, like that high school kid that wants desperately to be part of your circle only they haven't bathed in a week, spread gossip about your personal life, and coat the air with distrust.
I am writing my way through this dark forest, searching for words to describe the echoes and lurkings that are more often felt than heard. I drop words like breadcrumbs as I wander, hoping that should I get lost, should I meet up with a monster or witch, that I will be able to run back the way I came-- only I know, as I write this, that even that is futile. There is no going back the way I came. That trail has been washed away. I cannot return to the path I walked with my son by my side, to stop at vistas to share the nuanced landscape or to marvel at the bald eagle's cry. The bridge to that trail is gone. The memories of that place where I grew up as a mother, all the lessons learned, all the stretch marks on my heart, they are in my backpack. Occasionally I catch glimpses of that place I came from, only to have it once again obscured by fog or dense trees or my own flowing tears.
I walk barely feeling my feet on the earth, eyes cast downward, unaware of the scarlet tanager flitting from branch to branch guiding me with chirps and flutters. When I come to a huge log that has fallen across my path, I remove the backpack and rest, noticing, for the first time, the inklings of hunger in my belly, a rumble of sensation, then the thought, I don't have any food! I unzip the backpack and reach in. There, amongst the memories and lessons are tenderly wrapped parcels of trail mix, cookies, peanut butter, and crackers. How did these get here? I find a small card and open it--a fine blue feather almost floats away and there's a note that says, "You are on the right path. We are right here with you. You are not alone." As I devour the nuts & raisins, I reach in again, this time discovering a fine, silver necklace inside of a lavender box-- "Keep Going" is etched into the metal. I smile as I place it around my neck then put my hand over it and over my heart, breathing in the message. Dare I reach in one more time? Is it greedy to want more? My hand is nudged by an unseen force back into the pack. I feel around and find something so soft, so firm. I pull it out and gasp. I'm holding a felted heart that fits perfectly in my hand-- a spiral of color spreading out from the center in orange and scarlet and purple. I turn it over, appreciating the beauty of it, and notice in small letters at the bottom-- With love, HJJ. Suddenly, the dam breaks, I sink to the forest floor and sob into the moss and lichen and dusky brown terra firma. I am curled there for hours, fall into a deep sleep, and dream of Hunter, holding my face in his little hands, his face so earnest and sweet.
"I love you, Mama. I will always love you."
