Freedom of loss
The Mister and I lived together for 34 years before those four final fun-filled years when he was in the nursing home.
Sharing the same living space for decade after decade, we developed similar tastes. Everything we had was sleek, modern, no frills. No curleques or floral prints or drapes with billowing valences.
But taking a look around today, I realized Linda doesn’t live here anymore. At least not that Linda who was part of that couple.
Today, I have an eye for “pretty” things. Things with softer designs and flowers and sweetness. Feminine things. The Mister wouldn’t recognize this place. Or maybe even this Linda.
The hard lines and sharp edges all seem so cold to my now. Is this because I am developing an old woman’s tastes? Will I soon be putting lavender sachets in my underwear drawer? Pancake make-up on my cheeks? A hankie in my cleavage?
Or is it that something within me has bloomed now that the Mister is gone. Something that would have always liked wild roses and pansies on my dishes. Sweet little bric-a-brac. Hummingbirds carved into my book shelves, painted chests, and flowery, fluffy bedding.
None of this was the Mister and me. But all of this is me now. It’s amazing what you can find of yourself in the middle of what you’ve lost.
