Church for me today was Sam coming all the way out to the vegetable garden and standing on the edge of the freshly-tilled soil, hands in his pockets, watching me muck about getting rid of the remainders of weeds and sticks left behind, plotting out rows and wishing desperately that I could throw my seeds in the ground now, today, rushing spring along like an errant bus on a busy boulevard. The mud is halfway up my boots and when I finally notice him it takes me a splucky-slow minute to get to him. When I do he steadies my lurch, smiles and then reaches down to find a little bit of dirt, which he picks up, using it to make the sign of the cross on my forehead while he prays for my simple, errant soul.
We grow from it and return to it. I wink at him.
You don't bury your dead. The smile is gentle.
I can't. I am earnest and forthright. It's true. I can't. I can't leave them behind. I don't understand people who park their so-loved ones in the ground, effectively anchoring them to one place forever. Cold. Alone.
This is good for you, today.
I nod. Pleased that he is pleased.
Will you be in for lunch? I'll be back a little early. He does shorter services in the weeks leading to Easter.
Yes. I'll help.
If you feel like it. He's not going to mention the screaming. Not going to mention the fight I put up. Not going to mention the memories I drag around, rebuilding the mind-office, the darkened rooms full of file cabinets and their perfectly-organized thoughts, not going to mention Lochlan's fearful shouts and the wide-eyes as they looked at a little monster they thought was fixed, for the moment, but those moments are so few and far between. Grief grows like a weed all around me and I cut it back but it just regrows.
The good times aren't over, Bridget. He reads my mind. It's scattered like leaves across the grass in the heavier than usual wind.
Hope you're right. And I turn and go back to my work, which could be done by anyone else but today I need to do it. I need to see life on the trees and on the plants that survived the winter right along with me. I need to believe that things go on. I need..I don't know what I need anymore but this feels better than yesterday.
We grow from it and return to it. I wink at him.
You don't bury your dead. The smile is gentle.
I can't. I am earnest and forthright. It's true. I can't. I can't leave them behind. I don't understand people who park their so-loved ones in the ground, effectively anchoring them to one place forever. Cold. Alone.
This is good for you, today.
I nod. Pleased that he is pleased.
Will you be in for lunch? I'll be back a little early. He does shorter services in the weeks leading to Easter.
Yes. I'll help.
If you feel like it. He's not going to mention the screaming. Not going to mention the fight I put up. Not going to mention the memories I drag around, rebuilding the mind-office, the darkened rooms full of file cabinets and their perfectly-organized thoughts, not going to mention Lochlan's fearful shouts and the wide-eyes as they looked at a little monster they thought was fixed, for the moment, but those moments are so few and far between. Grief grows like a weed all around me and I cut it back but it just regrows.
The good times aren't over, Bridget. He reads my mind. It's scattered like leaves across the grass in the heavier than usual wind.
Hope you're right. And I turn and go back to my work, which could be done by anyone else but today I need to do it. I need to see life on the trees and on the plants that survived the winter right along with me. I need to believe that things go on. I need..I don't know what I need anymore but this feels better than yesterday.