“and it was seven years ago for me” she said.
Her eyes were filled with tears that hadn’t yet spilled
and she gestured towards them.
I no longer remember the first part of what she said.
It had something to do with due dates, or death dates, or birth dates.
I do remember her eyes though. How they glimpsed a whole well of pain.
How quick they were to brim full at the memory.
I have been the grateful receiver of many kind and gracious and encouraging words.
But this, this passing moment,
this quick “how are you? yeah, me too”
with tear-filled eyes, was the most helpful.
Seven years. It had been seven years for her,
at this time I was maybe one month deep,
and not sure what the way out looked like
but I felt this urgency to find it.
And oh how freeing it was when I saw that there can still be tears in seven years.
That it can still hurt.
That I don’t have to find a way to not hurt,
I just have to find a way to keep walking with hurt holding my hand.
“I have nothing to say” has been my mantra when asked
about this space and my absence from it.
It is only a half-truth.
“I have nothing to say”
I continue to repeat it, willing it into a whole truth
but a thousand broken words pour out of a thousand broken places.
The real whole truth is that the words are too hard.
Too hard to feel.
Too hard to admit to.
Too hard to write down and share and claim as my own.
It is so simple to sit behind a screen and write the words I want to feel.
Say the things I need to hear.
But it is so hard to walk through each day and believe them.
And harder still to write the words
that tear up and down the walls of my heart each day.
The ones that are ugly and angry and bitter.
In the book of Job, Job himself says that,
"the words of one in despair belong to the wind."
Monday was Ian’s due date.
And that date I’ve been holding my breath for has come and gone.
And everything seems to serve as a painful reminder,
not the least of which is my own body.
And I can’t reconcile whether I am relieved to have it passed
or desperate to have it yet to come.
And I’m wading through this minefield of emotions
and all the words that pour out belong to the wind.