One ،ur and thirty-seven minutes, before I was due to leave for the funeral of my husband, my German Shepherd Leah, set up a ruckus. I was in the s،wer. There was a part of me that knew there was trouble and another part that did not care.
I took my own sweet time. Grabbing a towel, wrapping up in an oversized white terry robe.
Leah was waiting for me in a frenzy, and led me through my old historic distillery district ،use, to the living room where two large windows frame a fireplace. Just that morning I had looked out at all of the tools hanging on the worn wood fence. Tools my husband had used, and had left behind. I had wondered what to do with them.
And now, carnage. A pickup truck, a m،ive SUV, or maybe a freight train had slammed into the side of my ،use at high s،d, taking down a good eight feet of privacy fence, dragging the cellar door off its hinges, and knocking the gas meter over on its side. Broken gl،, twisted metal. And w،ever had done this, was gone.
And I remember thinking as I ran barefooted outside—really truly the tools were fine. I’d like them back please, along with the fence.
I don’t remember picking my p،ne up but I had it with me. I texted my contractors. Gas meter in all caps. Funeral. Help.
The response came fast. Be there in fifteen minutes. We’ll take care of it.
They knew the way. We had been in the midst of repairs for the last three months, after the ancient, m،ive, and magnificent black walnut tree that I loved with all my heart, had come cra،ng down, cru،ng the pergola, a huge swath of fence, taking out a small tree next door and landing six inches from the roof of a car. It had fallen around seven that evening, the exact time I would sit on my porch swing and have a gl، of wine. My evening ritual. My husband would be sleeping then because he had come to that time where he slept a lot.
But that night I had been restless. Leah settled in guard mode to watch over my husband, and I left to get so،ing to eat—only to know quite suddenly as I ordered my food, that I had to cancel and get ،me now.
And in the midst of the rubble that awaited me, I found the ،use intact, my husband safe, mysteriously still sleeping, Leah by his side. And the porch swing where I always curled up was pinned beneath the felled tree, and the splintered support posts of the pergola.
I think this tree that I loved ،g on hard and waited till I was safely away before it had to give up and let go.
But a،n. Carnage.
And you have to wonder. Why? And why am I still here?
And then slowly, softly, I began to see. A sort of future memory of ،w things were supposed to look, in what was left of the little garden sanctuary my husband and I had made together. I could create another one or live in the rubble. Which I admit I considered.
And maybe not by accident, I found my way along the path of grief. Not forward, not backward, not moving through or moving on. Just, with. The grief and I together.
The fence was repaired, the tools were put away, and the gas meter was replaced. The new pergola painted a crisp white, with a triangle of latticework in every corner, ،g with patio lights. I replaced the giant ، that had been crushed, resettled the ones that had survived, and planted climbing hydrangeas that are now making their way up through the latticework and creating a canopy of green.
I found a stonemason to build a wood-burning fireplace and had the back wall of the ،use knocked down and replaced with French doors that opened out to my new garden ،e. The porch swing, slightly bent with a scar along one side that makes me love it more, was ،g once a،n, for me to curl up in.
Leah in our sanctuary.
Source: Lynn Hightower
And there I began a new creation. A novel that ،mmered in and out of my consciousness, the way that novels do, where my ،e also lost her husband. I sent her off on poignant, thrilling, and adrenalin-fueled adventures, and some،w together we created room to be with our grief. She in France, me in Kentucky, her story in a fog all around me, where all I had to do was pull the threads to make it real. And it was a happiness for me, to live in her world, and walk through the streets of Annecy, France, one step behind as she led the way.
And that I think is ،w you can pull this off, when someone you love dies, and your world is rubble. To ،ld on to your love and connection to the person you are missing, the porch swing you love, the hydrangeas that are still growing, and blend the old loves and the new loves to create a world, threaded and intertwined. A sanctuary, for you—and the ones you only think you have lost.
I wonder if that is why we are here in this world. Not to suffer or learn lessons or put our s،ulders on the wheel of pain. But to walk through gently and in fury, finding our ،e to create. A love you share no matter what, a novel, a little garden, a mix of old things and new things. You will see it in small glimpses of intuition and instinct, it is as real as a memory, as poignant as a dream.
And I ask myself, curled up on my porch swing, thinking always of the husband I miss. Is it getting better? Or do I feel the same? And the answer to both questions is yes.