Simple things
Holding on to the tea with the morning breeze floating my dress up, cooling my fever.
Letting myself fall into the soft bed cushions, tears running down my face.
Will this illness turn? Is that my lot in life?
Loss? Grief? Difficulties to surmount (and I do surmount them. And I have — but is it my lot?)?
Do I plan for the worst? Do I keep it on my horizon so It can’t accuse me of being oblivious to It? The pride of the Titanic being proclaimed unsinkable. Do I face that head on with humility? Aren’t we all sinkable? Is it some kind of superstition if I acknowledge that, note it on the horizon and yet, hold for dear life to my husband’s hand? To the simple things?
The path feels different for those of us who have lost. We know there are no guarantees. We have learned to treasure each day. But sometimes I worry that I hold too tight. It’s so I can be prepared, I know that. So I won’t be caught surprised. I walk through each room of type of loss, maybe daily. I assume I can’t be allowed to have something, someone who brings joy and fulfillment. These are gnarled remnants from church teaching, I know, but they are fiercely suffocating. That I need to be whittled down to reliance on God alone, whittled down to the bone of grief — nothing without God. That children aren’t yours but borrowed. Some truth to that, I acknowledge, but that means they can be taken at any moment. As a test? Job all over again? Or my husband? That was definitely taught too. We should be satisfied with God alone. That any “earthly pleasure” was added on top like an unnecessary flourish of syrup on an already good enough sundae. So I don’t deserve it. Him. Love. It should be enough, just God. And couldn’t it be wielded at any time — the sword of destruction — to get me in line, to force my reliance on God alone. Or our health? Wouldn’t want us to feel too invincible. Best keep us weak.
So forgive me, when my home is fighting off this notorious virus, unpredictable, fatal sometimes, and randomly ruthless, that I’m keeping every awful possibility as a dark spot on the horizon. I see it. I acknowledge it. I worry about it. And I hold on to simple things with tears, molding to the warm bodies in my bed, letting go to the softness of the mattress, to sleep it off. Maybe upon waking it will be better?