Last year, I was cautiously hopeful, and this year she is gone.
This bench has become an unmarked shrine for me. When I pass by, I often sit on that bench, missing her. Talking to her. Remembering.
I went for a run yesterday with my dog, and intended to sit on that bench and do what I usually do, but when I went by the bench yesterday it was occupied. A leathery, barefoot man with a thick white beard was playing a guitar. Wrapped bundles, containing perhaps all of his posessions were piled on the bench next to him. Strangely ethereal music full of arpeggios filled the humid air as he plucked the steel strings. I stood next to him for a bit while my dog sniffed out a bush. The transient appraised me with a bored glance and continued to play.
I thought about stopping him, thanking him for playing and telling him he was in a special place, where I found out my life was going to be different, where I still feel connected to this wondeful woman who got sick and died before her time. But the thing was, I didn’t want him to stop playing, and there is something else…
I am not sure I believe in signs, but I’d like to think this wandering musician, this hobo angel had a message for me. It is time to move forward.
I’ve been grieving for two years. Grieving the loss of my mom’s health, and then her life. My process isn’t done, but maybe its time to explore how to grieve, but to also be free. To find some way to compromise sadness and loneliness with joy and adventure.
So, yesterday, two years after my world shook, I didn’t sit down with heavy shoulders. I kept moving.