For six months after Shel died I sat still. Frozen, paralyzed with grief, surrendering to my loss. I didn’t do much, didn’t see many people, didn’t make much of an effort, just let the pain take me away. I suppose that I shopped and cooked and did laundry, but it’s all pretty much a blur now. If you spent time with me then, wrote to me, did something kind for me, I thank you sincerely. I’m afraid that I don’t remember much of the detail, except who was there, and who wasn’t.
Then I went to Europe for three months, and I started to come alive again. The struggle of travelling alone, being in London and Villefranche sur Mer all alone when I’d never been there before, being in Uzès where I’d lived for so long, but never on my own, it was all hard enough that I had to come back to life or else lose myself completely. Lose myself in the words swirling around me, in the masses of strangers, in the different ways friends saw me, now that I’m alone. Really, the whole three months was a sweet slap in the face. And if you were part of that cosmic slap, je te remercie vivement. Thank you.
Coming home was easier that I’d expected. This orchid that Hilary and Nelson sent me when Shel died has decided to bloom again to welcome me back, even though I haven’t been here to tend it. In this house I have a clothes dryer, a garbage disposal, only 15 carpeted stairs, as opposed to the 50 stone and tile steps that I had in France. Here I have my own bed, where Shel and I slept together for so many years, and my own car, as opposed to the tiny Panda I had in France, a doll-sized car if ever there was one. Here I have a closet full of clothes, as opposed to living out of one suitcase, as I have for the past three months. Here I have comfort, and convenience.
There was a time when all the comfort, all the convenience in the world couldn’t compare with the charms of life in France. But that was in another lifetime. Alone, recovering from a great loss, comfort is what I seek, and I’m trying not to be ashamed about it. I pride myself on being tough, but the recliner, the one Shel always called “the comfy chair,” beckons to me so seductively; it embraces me when no one else does, and I give myself over to that.
Spring is not far off here, the time of awakening. Winter is passing, the darkness and cold will soon be memories. Just as we don’t seek to hold onto the winter, I’m letting go of the pain, letting spring into my heart. Not letting go of Shel, because of course he’ll be forever with me. But I’m letting go of the piercing, paralyzing grief, and in doing so I’m awakening to the new season, to my new life, wherever I may find it.French Letters Visits America comment below, or link to this permanent URL from your own site.