I blogged about my friend who died the morning I left on a retreat. Last week, The Welshman’s mother passed. She was a complicated person and minimally nice. Nice is a strong word to use, but she was never kind. Still, The Welshman’s mother died. An abused child doesn’t think of the abuse when their parent dies, especially when age has weakened the sting.
His grieving has helped me understand mine but that is not what I am writing about.
I am writing about his.
He came home from work early and just wanted to relax. I took him for a drive up the coast much like you’d take your dog out for some good deep breaths f air and relaxation. He felt better but exhausted. Grief is exhausting. mind numbingly so.
Now he has a cold of sorts. He never catches colds. The cold is his way of handling grief. I believe it allows him to be weak. Something his mother beat out of him at a very young age and his father fostered by being weak.
I wish there was a pillow that absorbed grief and took one off to sleep in a land of good memories and happy endings. I wish there was a blanket of dreams that washed away grief, taking it away in great waves like those created by a storm over the ocean. I want the soft sand to sift away the remainder of pain and become sand castles of hope.
The future will be bright again one day for The Welshman. One only hopes the wait isn’t long. He deserves to rid himself of this cold and inhale deeply of the fresh new air of tomorrow.