I have a picture of a tree that is hacked to bits around its’ trunk, but is still standing. Barely. The caption underneath reads:
Time heals all wounds. But it usually leaves a pretty big scar.
I feel a certain kinship with this tree. It has been through the wringer, but it is tough. It’s in terrible shape, but it hangs on nonetheless. It’s roots run deep and strong. It will pull through provided its’ basic needs – food, water, and love – are met. Things will get better. The tree and I are one and the same.
I showed a friend of mine the tree picture a few weeks back.
“That tree is going to die”, he said.
So much for time healing all wounds.
A year ago today, Joey died. Our family is still struggling, but we are hanging on. I hope things will get better. That said, I am realistic. There is always going to be a piece of me missing and I am not the same person that I was before. I am trying because I know that is what he’d want and I know that it’s what I have to do for my own health and for the people around me that care. It is difficult. I am far from wonderful. That said, I haven’t given up. But sometimes you just need to acknowledge that you are sad and lay around and cry. Today is one of those times. Good thing I have a comfy couch to do it on.
On the last page of “A Widow’s Story”, Joyce Carol Oates wrote:
“Of the widow’s countless death-duties there is just one that matters: on the first anniversary of her husband’s death, the widow should think ‘I kept myself alive’.”