I came to her crying. It was Iggy Pop’s fault. A song, memories, a broken narrative.
I knew it was coming. “I Wanna Be Your Dog,” played on the drive to her house. I felt the desperation with which I begged God to save my wife three years ago. Bargaining. I ran through the stages of grief like a series of ineveitable, twisting rapids in six nights sleeping by her side in the hospital. Alone. So many people moving in and out, but lonely and only a nascent relationship with Jesus to comfort me.
Grief is a long river. The rapids are always ahead. No matter how practiced you become, they remain dangerous and unpredictable. The nasty bitch that Nature can be. Anger.
In traffic, on the way to see my girlfriend, I forged into the tumult. Better to welcome the ugly crying and regain myself before we were reunited.
Reunited. No language is safe from the past.
I didn’t lose it in the car. It waited until I was in her driveway. I was upturned as she wrapped her arms around me. Slow tears. Hot and heavy (no language is safe) tears.
She listened. She made me dinner. She made love with me. The guilt and confusion don’t go away, they take breaks.
Now I’m alone in her house, but not lonely. I have Mary in my heart. I have Kristen in my heart. I have Jesus in my heart. God has blessed me with Unending Love.
It’s so green here. Mary would have loved it. She would love how cared for her sons and I feel here.
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