Driftwood
This word was offered by another widow.
I remember all too well those first few weeks of mixed feelings and emotions. I’ve clung to this excellent word to describe most of my days for the last eight weeks.
I’m not heaving with unbearable grief as the ‘ending’ gave me incredible pride, relief and overall peace. I am, however, totally weak with sadness, tears fall freely without drama, creating a wetness under my chin which I let drip until the tank has overflowed and is back to a weight I can carry again. The effort of keeping a lid on my reservoir is far too great and, once the level gets too high, I take myself to a quiet place and turn on the tap.
Drifting explains the exact feeling of a small branch steadily going down a pretty, winding river. Sometimes it’s a sunny day, warm and blue, cow parsley covering the bank and the water is calm, moving towards who knows where? Silver light shimmering like jewels on the surface.
Other times, the clouds are overcast, dulling the pretty view. The river still flowing, the branch determined to maintain stability and avoid getting tangled in the reeds or bashing into unexpected rocks hidden below the surface. It is still heading towards unknown waters, unable to get out of the course or pull over to the bank to catch a breath.
Will this day lead to fierce stormy weather and rapids, feeling exhausted and battered or will I gently float on the surface of a quiet millpond, alone in the sun’s warmth, appreciating the peace around me?
Whatever each day brings is unknown until I open my eyes and remember I am that broken branch now, instead of being part of the tree I once was. That tall, lifeless tree is getting farther away from me now, proud and strong as it dropped me into this river and I now have to find my way through the ripples until I reach a more peaceful and familiar place. Maybe I’ll be glad one day to get caught permanently in the riverbank and let new life settle around and on me, giving me stability and a purpose once more.
All I want to do, of course, is float back upstream somehow and find my beautiful tree again, alive with leaves and birds, and reattach myself to it, but I am no salmon, so I’ll accept my new life as driftwood and see where the river of life takes me next.
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