Old Boxes

A new writing project drew me to the dusty box of old files in the basement.

I avoided it for a very long time, but now, I’m ready.

The untouched boxes from our last (and incredibly difficult) move spoke to me and told me it was time to tend to them. I wasn’t happy about the task, so reluctantly, I opened the first nearby, half-crumpled box. My mother-in-law’s art supplies stared back at me.

What? She died a quarter century ago. How many times had we moved that box?

For now, I set it aside and thought my great-niece, the artist, would make the most of the supplies.

The next box contained old kitchen tools, untouched for too many years. Another useless box moved across country. Those can go to someone who will love and use them.

A Box Containing a History

Then an unmarked box beckoned me.

I sighed and fought the urge to ignore it. I opened the box and greeting me was a thick pile of notes from James’ writing dream. James worked on a book of his, “River City Ebb and Flow,” his whole life.

It was through a publisher’s deep friendship that James held the first copy in his hands before he died.

I met James in a coffee shop in New Orleans back in 1976. He didn’t sit on the stool next to me but on the one next to that. Our long-told story includes that moment when I heard a voice in my head that encouraged me to speak to him or otherwise I “would miss out on something good.”

I had a choice. I could ignore it and dismiss it as a rambling thought. Or I could say “yes.” With the word “yes,” I was acknowledging more than opportunity—I was acknowledging possibility.

Stepping into that possibility brought a full, rich life.

Fog

James died before our 41^st wedding anniversary. In those shared years, we traveled, moved, raised two sons and stood steady for each other.

Now what was supposed to happen? I was fully aware that if I lived as long as my mother did, a full thirty years lay ahead, and this time I would be navigating on my own.

One March, right before the third anniversary of James’ death, I traveled to Detroit to visit my son. The weather was cold and grey, the blend that often marks the end of winter, but, like a lighthouse, my son’s home sent out a beam for me to aim for.

At the time, I hadn’t seen my son and his family since the prior November, right after their baby was born. In that last visit, I’d still been in the fog then, the fog of grief. It hangs on for a while —it sure hung on me.

It wasn’t dynamic like the fog clouds that spin and slowly move with the wind; the fog I felt was cold and gray and stagnant.

It come on gradually. It probably began setting in around the time of James’ initial terminal diagnosis. Slowly, over time, it grew thicker and darker.

In a way, it was my own shroud calling to be acknowledged, so it could be set free upon identification.

It’s Okay

There, in my son’s home, we sat and conversed in the kitchen.

I forget our topic of discussion, but I recall feeling more talkative than usual. My sentences contained more words than they had in a while, and I was animated.

I noticed my son and my daughter-in-law exchanging glances after a couple of my comments. Then it struck me. I was different this visit, compared to just four months earlier.

I acknowledged what needed to be said. “I noticed your glances. I guess the biggest change for me since I saw you last is that I’ve decided it’s ok to be happy.”

They both jumped in with, “Of course it’s ok to be happy!”

In retrospect, what they didn’t realize was that giving myself permission to be happy was my biggest hurdle.

I was shrouded in fog for years, and I could have continued my slumber, like Sleeping Beauty, for another hundred years.

I didn’t want that, though. I didn’t want to die. I realized finally that I wanted to live.

Grief

Once, my grief was like dark, thick dust settled around my ankles, only to be kicked up every so often.

Now, when I sweep my pile of grief into the dustpan, I can take it outside and toss it to the sky. It glitters in the sunlight, and the breeze catches it.

Now, it is light, not dark. The wind gently carries it away.

My beloved, you know my heart. One day we’ll be together again and for that I will be grateful.

For now, I have other tasks coming my way. I’m grateful to finally reach this understanding. This life I have is a gift and I am grateful for what is to come.

After all, I trusted the wise voice that brought us together decades ago, and I trust it still.

My hungry ears lean in to hear it better. I listen for it, knowing it will show me the way.