Okay. Afterall.

I watched a woman hand a flag to a man today.

Rows of blue standing silent and still in the morning sun, beads of sweat the only evidence of strain among the rank and file. The plaintive wail of the pipes disappearing into the air, tartan and flags snapped lightly. The crack of rifles thrice over. White gloved hands rising and falling in slow salute. Pain diluted and sharpened, the sound of silence washing over us in awkward waves of comfort.

And in the silence, her whisper thundered “Are you okay?” in my head as she walked me past a line of blue.

Am I? Am I okay?

In a few short months it will have been four years since she whispered to me, officer to grieving spouse, stranger to stranger, woman to woman. Four years since the rifles fired for him and my fingers welcomed the flag that was the last gift. Four years since a little boy asked why “that man was saying things about Daddy that made you cry” and a little girl screamed at the injustice of it all.

Four years of loss and renewal. Questions and answers. Resistance to change and rushing toward it. Memories not yet made, lost. Sleepless nights and comfortable slumber. Tears and laughter. Anger and adjustment. Four years after a moment that changed everything. They are the lost and found years.

A life lost and a new life found.

In four years we have processed trauma mentally and physically debilitating. We have embraced new friendships and watched others languish. We have found new passions and embraced new experiences. We’ve questioned the expected and chased the unexpected. We have challenged norms and demanded more.

The pipes still tear at my heart. The crack of rifles continues to pierce my soul. The line of blue remains uncomfortably comforting.

 

Because we’re more than okay.

Seeing Green.

My desk is stocked with green pens, the finest tip. Of all the art on my walls, it is the lush green stone cut lithograph that I prefer. When my parents eventually slide into that gentle good night, they are well aware that it is the expansive green stone cut on their wall that would ensure my fond remembrances, everlasting.

Of the features I awkwardly accept as my own, it is my eyes that I find most comfortable. Spring green in laughter. Dark forests in anger. The color of moss wet with sadness.

My birthstone is a gentle lime green, my dishes a set of pottery washed in the color of wet ferns. I am strong in the ivory skirt adorned with feathery leaves, adventurous in the tweed mini. In boarding school, I reveled in the forest green black watch kilt that swung far above the knees it was meant to reach.

One false move, and I’ll be covered in green ooze.

In 24 hours, the crystalline waters of my swimming pool have devolved into a cesspool of algae and stagnation. Koi would decline these waters, and at any moment I am expecting the Swamp Thing to emerge. And because I am “woman without able man,” it falls to me to … er … jump into the pool and find a solution to this fetid situation.

The thought of which has me feeling green and seeing red.

My home has reached a certain age where the bones are becoming brittle and the potential for hip replacements is increasingly likely. And in the past two weeks, I have seen green move from my hand to theirs as I’ve had to repair the air conditioner, the garage door and the irrigation system.

And now this. In the dead of summer. In the desert.

Which is why I am seeing green far beyond the algae-infested pool and the disappearing dollars. In the first chapter of my life, I never questioned why the house and the cars and the pool functioned without interruption. How bike tires were repaired, and sprinklers never stopped. And he never questioned why bedtimes were what they were, when bills were paid and why the work suitcase was in the hall again. Everything worked. Because we worked at it.

But since I have been left to fend for myself, the car has died, the pool is problematic, leaks linger on without stoppage and the garage full of tools has overwhelmed me with its lack of direction and purpose. Seemingly inconsequential needs have become insurmountable in frustration and, deep inside, the prideful and lonely part of me has accepted and struggled through uncharted territory, reluctant to ask for help and see inconvenience flash in eyes and mistrust in others.

While envy flashes in the green of mine.

Nines.

He came home in the dead of night, the sound of Velcro ripping and boots dropping and whispering in the dark not to touch them until he could clean the gray matter and the blood. And I thought nothing of the oddity of it all.

A pair of boots.

I searched everywhere for them. For weeks my mind raced frantically, desperate to find the black boots that were as much a symbol of the man as the badge he wore and the gun he carried. I called the ones who had done what I could not, polishing brass and pressing dress blues. I emptied boxes, only to repack them and empty them again. I searched cupboards and closets and car trunks, tears rushing down my face as I tore through what had been left behind. And then I sank into the soft, dark blue pile.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

In that moment when I realized he would walk forever in them, I lost my fight against the pain I had fought to control. For as long as I had known him, he had worn those boots. They rested, weary and strong, on the bottom shelf in our closet, beside utility belts, Kevlar vests and tidy stacks of inky cargo pants.

Molded to his imprint, they grew battered and weary over the years, evidence of the daily hazards that came with the career path he had chosen to tread. He chose resoling over new purchases, a decision of practicality, comfort and security that is an unspoken understanding amongst men and women of service and valor.

Losing his boots was as though I had lost a vital and very real link to the man who had walked into my life unexpectedly and left just as suddenly. His footprints are deeply imprinted on our lives, as are the footprints of any father to a child, any husband to a wife. He was so much more than a pair of boots, but the boots were symbolic of the man he was. Confident. Steady. Strong. Supportive. Loyal. And, each day, after he gave everything to a community that did not know him they carried him home to us.

Each Memorial Day I stare at the pictures – dusty and dirt-worn boots standing weary and proud at an inverted rifle’s base, empty helmet resting softly – and I think of the hundreds of thousands of men and women who wear boots every day for each of us.

I think of the ones sleeping restlessly in them behind cover, and the ones climbing hostile terrain worlds away. I think of the ones standing on street corners, and of the ones riding to the scene.

And I think of the price of a pair of boots.   

40 Days and 40 Nights.

And the rain was upon the earth forty days and forty nights. – Genesis 7:12

It is the witching hour, that moment when the house is more an uncomfortable tomb than it is a warm oasis.

Years have passed but the invisible minute hand still ticks time until exhaustion surpasses uncertainty and I drift into temporary oblivion. Night and I have come to an uneven truce, brokered over tears and wine and boredom and fear. The sound of his breathing in the dark has long since faded but the impact of its silence quietly reverberates in ways we feel but cannot see.

And for 40 nights I have listened. Waiting.

I have watched him for almost four years, watching as he processed and readjusted to a different world that was confusing and unfair and empty. I watched as he fought back tears with a little boy’s determination and confusion only for them to be shed years later in uncontrollable waves. I felt his arm encircle us, his mother and his sister, as he draped the heavy mantel of manhood on shoulders that were too young for its weight. I listened to his confusion and hurt, trying to ease his pain through my own confusion and hurt. And we regained our footing together, through tears and laughter and anger and words and silence.

Then without warning the gentle ebb and flow of our daily lives was disrupted, our carefully erected defenses cracked. And the boy that fought so hard to accept the loss of a father and wonders if another will someday accept him as his own, once again woke screaming in the night.

In the dark he came running, searching for comfort against the nightmares. Night after night, cries in the dark that woke us both while tears fell from our hearts like rain on the earth. And I wrapped my arms around the boy that is the image of the man, wiping the tears and pushing away things that come in the night.

Lovely boy, sleep well tonight.  

'Til Death Us Do Part.

Though your dreams be tossed and blown
Walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart

-Celtic Woman

I didn’t see her sitting there, dressed in her finery amongst our family and friends, twisting our lifelines between her fingers as we vowed to build a life together. I did not see how mine trailed from her fingers alone while his was caught short in her palm.

I saw white tulips and snowy irises and felt creamy chiffon and the sweet smell of orange blossoms wrap around me in the warm dusk of late April. I heard strings in the air and gentle laughter. I saw our children in his eyes and I heard our future in his voice.

I wonder if she wondered as she held our fate in her hands.

Did she see how it would end? Did she know he would slip away without warning, without reason? Did she hear the questions they ask, and the innocent things they say to strangers? Did she count the tears that dropped and the sleepless nights?

I wonder if she watched me.

Did she see what trailed from her fingers? Did she watch me standing there in white and see me standing in black, Pachelbel on the violin fading to the mournful cry of Amazing Grace. Did she see the flowers in my hand and the flowers resting on the ground each April?

Did she watch me wrap myself in quiet dignity while anger seethed inside? Did she see me alone in the dark counting the minutes until morning? Did she see the food untouched and phone calls unanswered?

Did she see that moment that escaped me, when the bruises and angry scars began to fade? When tear-stained cheeks dried and sleep returned in part. Did she hear my laughter rejoin theirs, and did she smile softly as she saw life return to a life interrupted?

I wonder as she broke his string and twisted mine—did she break and twist with them?

Did she see my steps grow stronger and bolder? Did she see me archive the pages of chapters written and watch as ink began to stain the pages yet to be written? Did she watch as I stumbled into choosing a life not yet lived? Did she smile as she watched us laugh and love and live while she held our lifelines in her palm?

I wonder.

Did she see me watching her defiantly and silently across the gravestones as I laid white tulips in the grass again?

Jackie O So Mad.

One of the things that happens when you become, you know … a widow … is that you are suddenly and intensely aware that every move you make is analyzed, every word you utter is dissected, and every tear you shed is counted. And ever since Jackie O showed the world what grace under fire looks like, you’re either a Jackie O. 

Or you’re not.

Well, here’s a little secret. We may look and act like the epitome of grace and decorum on the outside, but on the inside we want to take our white-gloved hands and stuff a pillbox hat straight down the esophagus of each person who said “you were so polished and graceful. Just like Jackie O.”

I find grace and polish to be overrated. And always have. Right down to my boarding school-primed upbringing and my choice college education. Because there’s nothing fun about grace and polish 24/7, and because the expectations are exceedingly high, leaving no margin for error. That doesn’t mean you’ll see my white-trash-trailer-park side anytime soon, but I’m the sorority sister that knew the best frat parties and not the secret handshake. So, you’ll have to forgive my lack of polish, but there’s really no need to sugar coat the obvious.

I am pissed off. Not a little. A lot.

If you know me, you know that I have reached a point where neither grace nor polish can keep the lid on the pressure that has been building.

For 120 minutes now, I have listened to my six-year-old daughter scream sporadically in confusion and pain. Because of dental DNA I place squarely at my late husband’s genetic doorstep. Which will cost me four figures—before the decimal point. That will be a source of frustration and concern for her, ever after. For all the visits that my own pearly whites have endured because of the damage his early departure caused … and the residual carnage my restless mind ground to death while my body slept.  

For the odor that has lifted its way to my nostrils from the shoes of the woman sitting in the waiting room next to me while my ears have bled.

He is gone, a fact that I quietly digested, accepted and filed away years ago. While I am no longer angry that he’s gone, I am in moments like this exceptionally livid at what has been left behind. Monthly healthcare bills that extract more from my bank account than a mortgage payment yet cover less than a cable bill. Red tape that stretches on without reason. A house I never wanted and that I am unable to leave. Questions I no longer wish to answer. A life I want to live that is just beyond my reach.

And now this.  

For now I’ll wear grace and polish, like wet clothes dampening the rage underneath. And I’ll wear it when she wraps her arms around me, tears falling into my neck. But tonight, when the house is dark and silent, the tears that I held back with a mother’s grace and strength will fall with an woman’s unpolished weakness, hot with pain and cold with loneliness. And I will cry as much for her as for the empty darkness that surrounds me where strong arms do not. But before my tears fall, I will dry hers.

With a McFlurry.

Unbottling Time.

Simple and elegant, they are precision timepieces artfully crafted in silver and platinum with crystal settings and slivered hands. They are beautiful. 

And I hate them.

I’ve never been particularly fond of watches. I toyed with the idea of them, committing myself for brief interludes before setting them aside to gather dust. Expensive shackles, watches weighed heavily on my tiny wrists and my mind.

And yet my life demanded that I count time. Endless meetings that ran over and into each other, midnight feedings that became midnight terrors, frantic runs squeezed in between rush hour and the dinner hour, lunch hours lost to doctor’s appointments, errands and groceries, phone calls unanswered and letters unwritten. While my husband’s clock was simple and straightforward, mine was erratic and unyielding.

After he died, I counted time—24 hours, 48 hours, seven days, one month, 90 days, six months, one year, 18 months—as though I was measuring the time that I had left, not the time since he had left me. A life on hold because he had left it.

And then I stopped counting.

I sifted slowly through the remains of the life we had lived, turning from the past and toward an unwritten future with each passing moment and each closed box. A life on hold suddenly became a life to be lived, and a clock that was once erratic and unyielding became mine to unwind. I wished less for the past and longed more for a future and I wondered who and what were yet to come.

As I close the last boxes and step into the future I want, I know.

It’s been there all along, waiting for the time to be right.  

The Kindness of Strangers.

She is a stranger, and yet I know that we would talk for hours. Like old friends, we would laugh at memories and strike with whispered lashings at the vultures circling. And as the months passed and our minds cleared, we would wander unguided through the place were widows are left to wither and decay.  

But it is not about me. And it is not about her.

Her pain is no worse, and no less, than mine. Like those of us who have passed before—and those yet to pass—it is simply hers. My tears run hot for a little girl who does not remember the laughter and the warmth. Hers burn viciously for a little girl who will never be held at all. She mourns dreams never realized. I pick up the pieces of a life half lived. She is just beginning. I am beginning to live.  

Like parched leaves that swirl and rest and swirl again, I piece together the moments and the hours. Time that stood still before vanishing into the silent movie that replays in my memory. Help offered and unexpected kindnesses given. Cards filled with handwritten words awash in dried teardrops. Questions without answers. Blue shirts. Black boots. Polished brass.

A cream envelope.

He knew my husband by profession first. By mutual friendships, characteristics and moral compass second. While I mourned a husband taken without warning, she mourned a husband slipping away. And together they looked beyond their own pain to mine, giving me the gift of hope, compassion and peace of mind asking nothing in return and yet deserving so much more than I could give. Until I wrote the letters of her name on an envelope, like they had written mine only a few months earlier.

It is often said that those who receive the least, give back the most. Like the envelope that was filled with so much more than it held.

I do not know the woman behind the name on the creamy envelope in front of me. I write the letters of her name slowly, as though with each letter the pipes that played for her became less melancholy and more hopeful. And I wonder if someday she will wonder about the woman behind another name.

On another cream envelope.