I lingered for what felt like eons along the banks of the Tennessee River, knowing it would be the last time for a long time. I'd gone down there with clear intent, to cast some rose petals into the slow-moving green waters as a tangible means of "letting go"... Each fistful was a different goodbye brimming with its own emotions: relief, anger, longing. We all have our own private rituals, and for me, it felt good to see those petals disperse and drift downstream. I like to know where things are going.
But then a funny thing happened. I decided to race ahead, cutting corners, to catch a glimpse of those petals floating around the bend, to reassure myself that I can see what's coming. I waited. And waited. And waited. And they never came. Finally, I had to let go of that, too.
Ever since, I've just felt brokenhearted. Looking downstream is easy; all the memories are there, the stories we share, the history we've created and can hold up for inspection. Upstream is upheaval: the unknown, the uncertain. I'd like to feel there's hope, and resolution. Instead, I'm adrift without my lifesaver, my anchor, my compass, my captain. This is loss, this is grief, and I'm sinking in it. Somebody, please, throw me a line.
MOTHER of FOUR, freelance writer, amateur silversmith, domestic dynamo, chef de maison, head chauffeur, sanitation supervisor, social director, crisis manager, chief arbiter, errand expert, auxiliary ATM, maven of multitasking, sleep deprivation specialist, keeper of the cookies…