A Stormy Sunday
Holidays make me hurt inside. It is now the end of Passover. It is a grey dismal Sunday. Overnight the trees and flowers awoke and gave the earth a warm greeting. The rose bush had sprouted leaves. Soon it will display its delicate flowers. The dogwood tree shyly unfurled its new formed foliage. The various plants proudly display their new flowers. But today, the thunder angrily crashes through the ominous steely sky. Rain rushes down at the newly awoken trees and flowers, making them bend low into themselves at the angry onslaught of the weather. My dogs and I are in the kitchen. They lie down on the carpet underneath the chairs, feeling safe from what is going on outside. I have been in my nightie and dressing gown all day. I did not care to dress. I am not going anywhere in this weather. I can hear Kelly snoring softly as he sleeps in his bedroom in the late afternoon. He needs his rest. He works early hours during the week. Recently they have been working late as well. They have a deadline to meet.
I curled up with a book earlier, but now I am downstairs. I look out the window at the tumultuous weather, sipping at my cup of tea. The radio is softly playing old songs that take me back in time. I feel melancholy. I feel alone.They just finished playing ‘Putting on the Ritz.’ It reminds of the aimless rides Peter and I used to take on lazy weekends. We let the car lead us to wherever it wished to take mus. Mostly we found some delightful place. A place with a beautiful view, or a quaint old charming little town whose name we forgot or a quiet small café on Atlantic Avenue, in Brooklyn, playing classical and serving delicious food. Everything we did together felt magical and wonderful. That was how it always was with us. Even a hole in the wall fish and chips shop was remembered through a rosy haze. It wasn’t where we were. It was only important that we were together.
How could life have changed so much in one split moment? My Peter died and suddenly everything became different. I do not comprehend how this happened. I did not understand the reason, the suddenness, the lack of warning. I don’t know how to cope without him. I try and I know that I am making progress. Some days I hear myself singing like I used to before and tell myself that I am going to be fine. Yet, I find holidays hard. The pain of losing Peter becomes so intense during those times, that I can hardly breathe. I feel as if I am walking alone in a crowd of people that l love and who love me. It is holiday time. Everyone is happy. I go through the motion of talking, smiling, laughing; but my inner self is crying, “Where are you Peter? Are you okay? Are you surrounded by loving people that left before you? Are you happy? I hope so. I do not like thinking that you are not. Why did God have to snatch you away so soon? We did not have enough time together. It would never have been enough time!”
Another clap of thunder startles me out of my faraway thoughts. I return to the present. The rain comes rushing down so hard that it is difficult to see. Through the curtain of rain I spy at the pink blossoms of the tree in the middle of the street. I smile to myself. New beginnings. The resurgence of spring. The rebirth of a new season. Our lives ape the seasons. Spring, summer, fall and winter and then the end. That’s the way it goes.
I get up and climb up the stairs to our bedroom. I curl up into to the old armchair that Picasso has decided to make his own, before he gets to it. I am reading a fascinating book about people who lived during the Stone Ages. Their emotions were no different than ours are now at the present time.
Picasso gives me a pathetic look, as if to say, “How could you?” I ignore him. Ebony jumps up on the bed, curls up into a little ball and makes herself comfortable. The thunder continues to rumble and roar. The rain hits the roof and windows in a staccato rhythm. The radio plays on. We comfortably settle into the rest of this stormy Sunday.
In my head I hear Peter saying, “We had a great life, didn’t we?” I answer, “Yes we did. We were so very blessed. I still am because I have my beautiful memories, Peter.” I smile to myself and continue reading.