Walking a road already travelled is not always easy. Retracing steps often makes it difficult to contain one’s feelings. I guess that’s the nature of memories. They can arrive with overwhelming clarity, or in fragments, with smudged colors and contours, lacking distinct definition, untidy, but with fresh shock and frequently appalling weight of tenderness.
We all carry memories on our individual pilgrimages that bear witness to our joys and unique pain. This is good.
I find I’m more reflective in Spring than I am even in Autumn. And always when there are lilacs, with those noble blossoms that belie their delicacy.
Roses are mighty. Lilacs have a compact dignity.
All lives are governed by rhythms of their own. I try to resist pacing mine by dates on a calendar. But this weekend marks the second anniversary of Dennis’ passing. We really have no protocol for such things. Life isn’t nearly as stable as we might wish.
I acknowledged the occasion by arranging for our grave stone. It was not as unnerving as I had anticipated. No arches or columns. It’s simple and unremarkable. It will do.
It is good to remember. It fills the hollows.
I understand things in a way I never have before.
That’s strangely liberating.