He raises a thick eyebrow. “Are you, though?”
My puzzled look must be enough, because he stays silent.
“Sorry, that is.”
“Now that I think about it, nah, I’m not.” I sip on my black coffee and groan in the back of my throat. For the first time in my life, I wish I had something other than black coffee, more like one of the three coffees I got from Natalie.
How does one go through what feels like withdrawal after meeting someone twice?
“I don’t know how you do it.” He walks around me, grabbing a banana from the fruit bowl this time, breaking it in half. offering Chili one, and shoving the other one in his mouth. “Drink poison like that without any sugar or creamer.”
“Easy. It matches the depths of my soul.”
He takes three steps back and shoots the banana peel over his head, landing it in the bin. “Swoooosh!” He does some sort of dance all the way to the front door, screeching his shoes on my clean floor.
“Aspen,” I bark, and he laughs.
“Easy, old man. I’m heading out. Some of us like to stay active around here.” He opens the front door behind him. “I’ll be back tomorrow!”
Before I can reply and beg him not to come at the crack of dawn, he’s out of the house, taking light and happiness with him, the same way he brought it in. I let out a sigh, and Chili bleats.
“I know, girl. He’ll be back tomorrow.” I pet her, sip my coffee, and wonder if maybe I can be like that again—happy.
8
ENDEARING AND RIDICULOUS
Shake It Out; The Dog Days Are Over, & Never Let Me Go by Florence + The Machine
Natalie
There’ssomething so strange about grief. I mean, all of it is, starting and ending with the fact that no two people grieve the same. There are five stages, we all know that, but what people don’t realize is that each stage doesn’t come once. They ebb and flow like the tides—sometimes, they’re gentle waves kissing the shore, and other times, they’re forceful, devastating tsunamis.
I grew up so lucky to be a complete stranger to grief until I lost Nick. What a privilege it was to not know what your heart being ripped out of your chest felt like. But then I lost him, andIwas lost.
I had no clue what all the feelings were. I surely didn’t think begging my dead husband to come back while simultaneously screaming at him for putting himself in the situation he did was normal. I certainly didn’t think not being able to get up frombed one day and the next redecorating the house while wearing florals and dancing in the kitchen was normal too.
And then, therapy came to play.
Not because of me, but because of them. I couldn’t afford for the girls to lose a mom too.
At the beginning, it helped me cope with my anger, but it eventually developed into me trying to find happiness again. So much of my happiness relied on him. Once he was gone, I felt like nothing could ever make me happy again.
Especially after having Vero.
The postpartum period was a whirlwind of an emergency C-section that ended in a hysterectomy, and then hours and hours of therapy. Juggling that and a teenager going through grief was hard enough; there was no time to find my new happy. Around Vero’s first birthday, I received an official diagnosis of postpartum depression.
It’s been a long journey for sure. Dr. Martin wanted me to find something that made me smile that wasn’t related to the kids or my shop, something that was purely mine. I mentioned the glimmers Santiago is always talking about, and she encouraged me to find and create glimmers of my own, things I could do to boost my hope-o-meter, as she calls it. So, I found upbeat music and fun outfits.
It started as a therapy practice, and it evolved into me playing dress-up and getting an instant dopamine boost when I wear something I feel comfortable and confident in. The outfit I’m wearing today makes me feel both—a green, my staple color, summer dress, milkmaid style that flares when I spin. I feel alive every time I wear it.
I still find that some days, acceptance is the stage I live in, constantly adjusting to my life without him. I definitely don’t bargain anymore; shock wore off quickly, and I’m not in denial—most of the time. He’s gone, and he’s not coming back. I knowthat. But sometimes, in the middle of the night when I fall asleep, I reach over and search for his arm, but the empty space reminds me quickly of everything that happened. It’s then that the rest of the emotions flood through me, sweeping me under.
Today, though, as Florence +the Machine blasts on the radio on repeat, I find companionship in it—summer thunderstorm outside the window, an empty bookstore, and emotion screaming through the speakers. Feelings so eloquently strung together in artistic prose through songs and instruments, carrying truth through me. It’s truly fascinating.
It’s days like today when I feel most thankful for being alive, for being able to witness the magic of music, of art, of love.
I think that’s why I love books so much too. What a beautiful thing it is to fall in love over and over again within the pages of a book, even if it’s not romance, my favorite. Poetry, women’s fiction, horror, any genre can transport me to a time of peace, love, tragedy, or sorrow, making me feel less and less alone.
