I Am This Woman

I had the good fortune to spend time in the bosom of a friend and her family last week. And so many things transpired, at a subterranean level, deep inside my cold black heart, which meant so much to me. Without embarrassing her over much, I’ll just say that the hum of family life was good to hear again. It was somewhat like my own family of origin, though this bunch were much happier than mine. There were mishaps and problems, there were meals appearing out of the fridge, from the holy tupperware of plenty and off the manly grill. There were offspring closeted in bedrooms doing their own thing. There were somewhat bored teens pacing around looking for something to do. There was laughter, fun, games and knitting. There was smooching in the kitchen, there was laundry tension (briefly), and there was sawing and sanding, television, music. There was whistling tunelessly and tunefully. And there was booze, coffee, burgers and pizza.

It was utterly charming, utterly normal and imperfect. It was life. Her marriage continues, her family thrives, and her outlook on life, career and family grows. What a gift it was to be in her home, with a running conversation from morning to night for days on end. There is no way I could have known how much my batteries would recharge, or how badly and deeply low I had run them. There were empty places that even Wahoo’s Fish Tacos could not touch, but being with family did.

Now I know. I’ve managed to climb up and have seen up over the edge of this pit I’ve been living in for two+ years. It looks pretty good out there. Once I get my strength, I’m heaving myself up out of this hole of grief, and rejoining the living.