Reflections

This morning, as I was driving down Broadway (yep, we have one too), I watched the Volunteers of America homeless shelters, the bus stations and Denver Hitting Club ("Rule No. 1 about Denver Hitting Club: Do not talk about Denver Hitting Club") meld into the upscale hotels and offices that characterize most of Denver. I decided it was time for reflection.

I've been here nearly seven months now. I can't remember the exact date because it was such a slow process. Usually, you move and one minute you're in one place, the next minute you're in another. For us, we were in Smithfield a day longer than we were supposed to be, then in Asheville; then we drove through Tennessee, Kentucky, and Illinois, and made it to Lake St. Louis, Mo.; then through Missouri and Kansas to Burlington, Colo.; and finally we were in Denver.
I can't believe it's been eight months since I saw Kathleen and seven months since I saw my friend Erin. I still have the wrong pictures of home painted in my mind. I expect each morning for my eyes to open and look into my big closet with all its shelves -- I still remember what went where -- and not into my tiny closet that must accomodate all the belongings I had room to unpack as well as the dirty clothes, because there's just no other place for them. All I have left of that house is the photos. One of our bedroom sits on the desktop of my laptop. It was taken after everything was out of the house -- my big closet is open, the room is freshly vacuumed, and the gossamer curtain flutters as if kissed by a ghost. Putting this photo in such a conspicuous place is my way of trying not to cry when I think of my room, with its sunny yellow walls and its view of the daylilies (I wonder how they did this summer?) and the pond, where turtles sunned themselves on a log and egrets dipped low to fish. I missed the poplar's blooms this year, and the old-fashioned rose too. I missed everything. And my son will never know the simple pleasures of fishing in our pond, or of going on a nature walk with Grandma around the yard, or of an Easter egg hunt where the eggs sit in the bricks and on the trellis, where only Daddy can reach them. I have spent an inordinate amount of time grieving the pleasures we will never have again.

Having said that, I realize that it is time to find new pleasures, to accept that which I cannot change and have the courage to change the things I can. Hot chocolate in winter (it's snowed twice this week) is nice. So are s'mores. And the other day, I saw a picket line, something you'd never see in right-to-work North Carolina, and it did my heart good. But try as I might, I haven't found anything to replace the joy I once found in the egrets taking wing over the sparkling water, soaring toward the sun. Nothing.