There are fifty tile and stone steps in my new abode, and sometimes as I trudge up and down I ask myself what in the world I’m doing here. I’m not the right age to be living alone in a house with fifty steps. I’m not the right age to be living alone. Is there ever a right age?
The year is drawing to a close, the hardest year of my life. I came here for closure, and to be surrounded by the past. And, if truth be told, to see whether that past could be made to spill into my present.
So far it’s an uneasy balance. To accept a dinner invitation means that I have to drive home alone at night, find a place to park as close to my house as possible, walk home alone in the dark. I did that last night, and it was shockingly hard to do. To print a simple page today reminded me that it was always Shel who changed the printer cartridges, who knew what should be plugged in where, what settings to fiddle to make our technology change homes and countries. I managed that too, but I missed him every step of the way.
The temperature, which was about 60° on Christmas Day, now hovers right around freezing, and the mistral is howling around the house. Somewhere a shutter is banging frantically, but I don’t know how to fix it. All I can do is wait for the wind to stop blowing, which can sometimes take days.
This afternoon I had a hard time making a train reservation to leave here in February, not because of the complicated French train website, which I’ve long since mastered, but because some voice kept telling me “just go home sooner, you know you want to, this is just too hard.”
But not long ago this place was all the home I wanted, and I could barely drag myself away. I came back to find out whether that home still exists for me here somewhere, or whether it vanished from my life when Shel did. And so I’ll stick it out, because I must, like making that walk home in the dark alone, because it’s something I have to face, like it or not. It’s medicine. I want to like it, but so far I don’t know how. I want it to heal me, but I feel so shaky.
One step after another, climbing slowly, hoping not to slip and fall. All I want is the one thing I can’t have.At Home In France comment below, or link to this permanent URL from your own site.