 My husband is dead. Will Gibbons is dead. I repeated those sentences over and over in my head. I thought about all I had left behind: a house, my belongings, a career, and a husband. And now, I imagined, that husband was dead. Lying on the floor. Lifeless. Breathless.
I had no plans. I could start over—start fresh. That was something that always appealed to me my whole life. Maybe it was the artist inside of me, but I loved to create and then destroy. I loved to produce art from start to finish, either sell it or get rid of it—sometimes actually smash it to bits—and then start over with something new, something fresh. A new idea. A new, perfect idea. Perfect. I liked the idea of perfect. I wanted everything to be perfect.
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 Late bloomer. I planted you in April, underneath a nourishing bed. For months, while green stalks sprouted up around you, I stared at your empty patch of dirt wondering what I'd done wrong. Hopeless. That’s what I thought you were. But at least I’d tried. In your place, I noticed green leaves--what I thought were weeds--pushing through your space in the dirt. Frustrated. I must have a black thumb, I thought. I gave up thinking your bulbs I planted in spring would ever bloom. But then, just a week ago, those leaves grew taller, spiraling toward the sky, like nothing I’d seen before. And at the top, a bright burst of flames. A stunning flower I’d never dreamed you’d become. You were worth the wait.  Sunrise. Mist dances upon still waters.
Silence. The world still slumbers, except me and the loon. He calls across the lake, an ode to the rising sun. This is my magic hour--when time stands still and quiet soothes my brain. Solace. Except soon that sun will break the horizon line, rousing crows in trees and humans in beds as it shines through bedroom windows. But this moment is still mine. I drink it in. Let the water baptize me, make my soul as clear as the lake. |
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