Healing

Home. Made it back yesterday afternoon. It was nice to sit on my couch. Look out the windows. Sleep in my bed. It’s still odd to have no one there to greet me as I come in the door, even though it’s going on four years since my wife died. My son stopped in when he got home, to visit and tell stories about what went on while I was gone, but there’s no companion. No one to whom I can tell a tale or have one told to me as we go about our evening routine. I miss that, the casual chatter of old lovers.

Here's an odd note. I’ve taken to drawing the blinds at night, as I sit alone in my house. Maybe I’m afraid something is out there. Or maybe I’m afraid nothing is out there. Whatever. As the blinds go down, it makes me feel as though I’m pulling the room in around me, like a big blanket. And sometimes I do wrap myself in a blanket as I read or watch the TV tell me stories. I liked being held. And I especially liked being held by someone who wanted to hold me.

My physical wounds, the thing that took me away from my home, appear to be healing nicely. There’s the odd pain, the weird twitch, but all seems well. Later this morning I’ll check in with my doctor’s office to see what sort of activity I’m cleared to undertake. There’s yard work I’d like to do. The Eve’s Necklace is blooming as are the Mesquites and the Orchid Tree and the Spiderworts and I want to be out among them, my old friends, pulling a weed or two, checking out the flowers, touching something beautiful, looking at something beautiful. Me and my flowers. Healing.