As my husband and I grew in different directions over the past few years, I took more solace in the house, refuge in the lake. When I moved out, I agreed to leave my canoe for the boys to use. And he agreed I could have lake visitation.
It’s been six months. I thought I would be ready to visit. While my son got his bike ready to bring to my house, I walked down to the lake. No. I am not ready. Not yet.
Walking past each of the plants I’d designed into the landscape, gotten planted by hook or by crook, nurtured, relished… my chest tightens. My eyes burn and sting. I have missed them marking the changing seasons. And this spring, they awaken and I’m not there. I miss them terribly. The scent of lilac wraps around me.
The thought comes, “it should be the husband I miss.” But we’ve grown apart slowly. I adapted to the evolution. Moving out happened abruptly. The should is a thought. The feeling is real.
My dear friends, confidantes. No longer “mine.” The heat wells through my skin as the sorrow wells in my heart. Feeling the spring come to the surface, the tears spill. I let them. Grieving comes. I let it.
The shower passes. For now. The soil of my heart is moist, softened. A new springtime. Abandon it to harden and dry through the summer? No. I’ll plant a new garden.