Anniversary

Thanks so much to everyone who has checked in on me. You haven't missed the password for the new private blog, I just haven't had a second to set it up. It will happen soon! (Well, just as soon as I find a spare moment and stop getting felled by cold after cold.)

About as soon as I hit "publish" on my last entry, I realized that I couldn't hide my blog from Grant. So, I told him. I think that the news came as something of a shock. I have a hard time talking about my emotions-- particularly the painful ones-- in real life and yet here I am throwing (some of) them up here for the universe to see.

Grant asked if he would recognize me in my blog. I told him that I thought so. It is me (or at least pieces of me) here, not some constructed artificial internet me. He read some of the entries. (I haven't asked much about which ones-- I don't really want to know, nor have I asked if he's still reading, but I don't think he is.) Grant said I was right-- it was my voice. He also said that he was totally fine with me writing about him, but that the entire blog thing made him uncomfortable not on his account, but because he felt as though I were baring my soul for the voyeuristic pleasure of people I don't even know to a purpose that he doesn't understand. (Or something like that. He said it much more gently, but that's the gist of it.) I've been thinking a lot about that comment. I can't argue that there's not some truth to it. At the same time, writing here is my therapy and I consider y'all my friends. I can't imagine not writing (even if I do end up with long spells of silence). I can't imagine how else I would try to arrange the jumble of my mind, to catalog my boys' childhoods, or to reach out for solace on those days when I feel as though the world is rushing by me, oblivious to my sorrow.
Today is one of those days when I can't imagine not writing.
I woke up at 6:15 and went through my usual routine of packing snacks, lunches, a backpack, and mud gear. I made breakfasts, woke the boys up, and Cullen and I took Finn down the road to the bus stop. Cullen and I came back, let out chickens, and picked up the house. I folded a load of laundry, got myself ready for work, and took Cullen to school. When I left Cullen's school at 9 (drop-off time there is so not helpful to working parents), I turned right out of the parking lot and headed away from town. Half a mile later, the road comes to a T's right in front of a charming New England-style white community house. If I turn left, Grant's house is a mile and a half down the road. If I turn right, Adam's cemetery is about two miles down.
I turned right and went to the cemetery. It is a gray and blustery April morning, and I picked my way in heeled boots over muddy ground strewn with branches blown out of the nearby trees. At Adam's grave, I picked up each of the little heart-shaped stones that the boys and I left there last July when we buried his ashes, stroking the smooth cold stones and re-arranging them on his marker as I do each time we visit. I kneeled down, tracing the letters of Adam's name and the dates that framed his life. I thought about April 1, 2000, the date that I married him. How I was a bit hungover. How he literally bounced up and down as I walked down the aisle. How we had no idea what life had in store for us. The hard times. The commitment. The shared purpose and joys. Well, maybe Adam got it, but I realize now that I didn't. I was 22 years old and still trying to figure out how to form my adult self following a childhood that had left me feeling torn apart. I had no idea what I was getting into, no real understanding of marriage, but a strong (maybe desperate) desire for love and security. Maybe it's dumb luck. Maybe, as Adam once told me, because he chose me and was sure of what we could have together. Whatever the case, April 1, 2000 is in my head the date on which I began to learn to be happy, to love life despite its many injustices and sorrows.
This morning, I cried at Adam's grave, and then picked my way back over the muddy ground to my car. I wanted to turn right, to head to Grant's house where I knew I'd feel cozy and he'd make me a cup of coffee and sit with me on the couch. I wanted to tell the man that I love how much I miss the other man that I love. But that seemed impossible, too much to ask of anyone, even Grant, who is exceedingly patient and kind. So I headed to work, climbed the stairs to my office, and told you.