Dearest One,
Good morning. Do you hear the ticking? I finally added batteries to that clock in the cubby. I find its sound comforting; weirdo, some say.
You made it through another birthday and, boy, was that one a doozy. I remember everything about being there with you with you last year: the field, the sunshine, the snack spread brought by a friend so you didn't have to be alone in the hurt. It was some sort of turning point, though, wasn’t it? Grief barring the door/this isn’t for you anymore. Yes, a turning point.
Now, I am in the house alone, early. I woke at 4:30. I’m usually up at 5:30 these last couple of weeks, and sadness no longer greets me. It’s been this way for quite some months, most of this year. Can you believe that? It’s a wonder to me to sometimes, that I move through my days with ease and gratitude and butterflies in my stomach for the man whose eyes I get to look into each day, who isn’t afraid of me and my history and, quite the opposite, is excited to join my story.
A wonder.
Listen: the ceiling won’t receive your unmet longing much longer, won’t stand witness to your quiet tears every night. One day, on a Sunday, you’ll lie down, hands behind your heads and stare at the ceiling, smiling this time, remembering and marveling at the current state of things: happy.
Someday - sooner than you expected but longer than you wish - you won’t the need the ceiling to be your confidant, your lover, or your friend.
“Keep some room in your heart for the unimaginable.” (Mary Oliver)
Keep some room.