A Detour

Shortly after my wife died in 2020, I talked with an artist friend to see if she’d be interested in creating a mixed media work using some of my wife’s small belongings and mementos. A work of art in memory. We gathered up little items into a nice collection, talked, and off they went. They came back Tuesday in much the same form as they left, having successfully eluded the grasp of inspiration. I think the little things felt they could still be used and pushed back against being stuck on a board forever. I’m glad they did.

Now I have the sad pleasure of picking through those little things. Mementos of a life well lived. A pair of gloves. Moccasins. DAR delegate badges. Lanyards with badges from a Walts Across Texas, trips to Disneyland, a cruise. A old box that held a piece of Christmas jewelry. A bag with a pepper design. And a box of maps, more than fifty, that cataloged our trips around America, of which there were many, with and without the kids, from the days of more time than money, before GPS.

That’s a lot of memories in a tiny space and nice reminder that grief is never really over. There’s always something that can pull you back when least expected, bringing forth the sadness, fresh as a daisy, wondering where you’ve been. I haven’t been far actually. I’ve merely learned to walk with a limp, and smile, and not so much find happiness but accept it, because it too is still there, just in a slightly different form, from slightly different directions. And I’m talking about the happiness that comes from being alive and reveling in the wonder of it all. The happiness that comes from a flower, a fresh breeze, a hint of rain, and a hug from a friend.