One of my friends said to use my sadness and grief to fuel my writing. I feel paralyzed rather than inspired. How can someone go from loving and adoring you to another woman in the matter of hours. Guy did. His texts were I love you, you are my rock, you are amazing…and then the phone call ending it all.
Much has happened since that phone call. I brought home two kittens from the Humane Society this past Friday. And my friends helped me rid myself of all Guy’s things. I urged Guy to change his mind about not coming and getting his things to include two dressers and a closet full of clothes. He said he didn’t have the courage to face me. He said to donate all of it to Goodwill. 13 trash bags later, and it’s gone.
I also had some furniture taken away to make room for my niece, Charlie, to move in. She is moving in in August. I had to move my desk into my bedroom and swap a queen for a twin bed. This is the first time writing in my new digs.
Grief is the color of a plum. Grief is the smell of burnt toast and wet pavement in a sun so bright it is startling to step out the front door. Grief is running water that reaches a dam and stops, curling back in on itself. Grief is the night with no moon and sounds of airplanes arriving home. I will walk through this, sometimes sloppily, sometimes gracefully, but through like my kittens tip toeing around framed pictures on my desk, occasionally knocking something to the floor. I picked up my little toy wizard from the floor this morning. Tomorrow morning maybe it will be God. I will kneel and feel God on my shoulders, broadening them and strengthening them. All will be well.