18 09 2013

So, it’s September 18.

I have been hyper-aware of the approach of September 19 this year.  I’ve been aware of it for several weeks.  And as a consequence, it has seemed especially slow.  And yet, I’m unwilling to take my eye off it.  It’s like my own Weeping Angel – doesn’t seem to move as long as I keep watching it, but blink or look away?  I’m done for.

Tomorrow it will have been seven years.  In the bible, there is the tradition of Jubilee – at the end of seven years you wipe the slate clean.  Debts are cancelled, slaves are liberated.  I wonder if I could do that on a personal level – wash myself clean of the years of grief and loss.  Wipe it away, start fresh and clean in a liberated world.

In my case it feels like a faulty metaphor.  Losing my husband is always with me, but not like some kind of sticky film; it’s more like the sheerest silk enveloping me.  I can see through it, and I’m so used to it that any weight is imperceptible.  I only notice it if it gets caught on something.

And there’s the thing.  Never knowing what it might get caught on.  Rarely the big things.  I can see those.  It’s the little stuff, the unfinished edges and rough surfaces, with their snags and catches.  Little comments that are completely innocent in intent, but somehow detonate, all spines and sharp edges, in my heart.  A song with more meaning today than it had yesterday.  A combination of light and wind making today like a day long past.  A scent, a sound.

Always I hear the slightest echo of my life, in the space where he should be.  No bigger than seven years ago.  No smaller, either.




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