“I will begin again…I will begin again…”

It’s a gray and mild New Year’s Eve, a day of reflection and of letting go. In the drama and trauma of the past 5 years, the divorce, the pandemic, the new career, the tRump administration, the war, finding and losing love, 2022 has been the year that was supposed to get us back to normal. But for me, re-entry has felt force fed, more socializing, more engaging, more noise and scents and chatter than I was really ready for, or comfortable with. Today feels like the finale of my “period of upheaval” and I am sad for all that has happened, all that has changed, even though it is for the good. I realized this morning, hand-thrown coffee mug in my palms, looking out at the trees beyond my kitchen window, that tomorrow the sun will rise again, and I have, after all, found what I was looking for.

Our walls were Homespun, Mannered Gold, Brick Path. Colors of the sunset and woolen blankets. Though the ceilings were too high, the conversation too distant, I made a home. Even told it once, “I don’t love you, but I will take care of you, and I will leave you better than I found you.”

I planted flowers and trees, day lillies, irises and figs. Brought in a piano, guitars, recorders, and the djembe I’d carried from Africa in ’91. Hung reminders to laugh, to love. But the walls knew. The marriage was cold. 

Now the house is absent too many papers piled on the countertop, dishes in the sink, crocheted throws on the couch, to curl up under after a bellyful of beef stew and french bread. 

And you live there. Clean, as you’ve always wanted. Surrounded by your gun metal and gray. Without streaks or smudges from my handprint on your heart.