When Life Returns

I haven’t wept often.

When I have it was for a significant reason.

The never forgotten day the gentle friend, the good Doctor, told me of my beloved’s death knell, the tears flooded my entire being and scorched my soul.

The moment I watched 9/11 explode on a TV in living color, I could not contain the tears.

And since then on recent notable occasions, birthdays, holidays, when one of the fabulous four forgets to remember. My long held hope for reconciliation seems to wither with determination yearly despite unrealistic hopes.

Most of the time I weep in private, but for the most part, I have always attempted to keep my feelings, opinions and hopes equally hidden from view.

The long lockdown of 2020 beginning in February and culminating with a positive Covid test close to a year later kept me relatively stoic.

That is until today.

No, it wasn’t an unexpected ache or pain, or sentimental get well message.

It was my scarf drawer, something I had assiduously avoided for summer weeks and winter months during the past year.

Today I made a mistake. I opened it by accident and when I viewed the colorful collection of silk, cotton, frothy and festive neckwear, the tears came.

The scarfs each tell a story. Some evoke memories of museum gift shops in Europe visited by my daughter and I. Others were gifts from my California family, and one was exquisitely handmade by Will’s Mom.

There were more than a luxurious few my beloved had given me before his last goodbye.

Oh, there are so many, and as I stood by the open drawer, I wondered if ever I would need them again. I questioned If ever I would emerge from what once I viewed as a brief hiatus and have the need not only for a scarf, but perhaps a few coins or possibly a bill or two as I met a friend for lunch, possibly a glass of chablis.

And I had no valid answer as I wiped the salty tears away.

Then I closed the drawer quickly with determination not to do that again until if and when life returns to normal.