When my husband Jerry died, I wondered if I’d ever see the stars again, laugh in outbursts that he called seismic, wonder at poetry. And… a poem found me…
What Fire comes to Sing in You
This blessing wanted to open your eyes to the joy that lives in such strange company with sorrow. Wanted to make sure to tell you lest you forget, that no matter how long it seems absent, no matter how quiet it becomes, joy has never been far from you, holding a space of celebration, watching for you, humming as it keeps vigil. Look -your life a candle this day a match. Strike it and see what blazes, what fire comes to sing in you.
From The Cure for Sorrow, by Jan Richardson 2020.
Grief became a fire singing in me because I discovered grief has a bond with memory. And memory has a pact with my creative spirit.
One day last week I decided to wander, something I hadn’t done, it seemed, for years — not wandering through a forest, or a garden, but a street where bookstores and coffee shops welcomed me. Where dogs lay with an aura of contentment, at the feet of their women friends, where tables and shelves covered in piles of used books sat at the entrances of bookshops, the way they might at Shakespeare and Company. My wandering became a walk into the past, to those times when my husband Jerry and I had traveled to our favorite place in the world: Paris, France.
I let myself go to that place of memory. Our apartment on Rue des Rosiers where we stayed that December 2012 in Paris. We were in our seventies, married six months, and Paris welcomed us like thirty-year-olds.
My memories are inextricably linked to the love we shared and they are my companion in loss. Thus the memories of Shakespeare and Company on Rue de Buchêrie in Paris came into view as I wandered through my hometown last week.
Memories of Jerry, sipping on French coffee as he sat in the outdoor cafe with ultra strong, just the way he liked it, and with me wandering through the aisles of shelves at Shakespeare & Co., books falling off piles, stairs leading to more rooms filled to overflowing. All the memories of that time were there as I wandered on the street in my hometown, memories touching my skin, surrounding me, giving me Paris.
My grief, in all her colors of sadness, confusion, and perplexity, found a memory of Paris and unexplained buoyancy on that ordinary street in my hometown, where a bookstore with a coffee shop called out to me.
I wonder, if I pay attention to my creative spirit and grief asking me to notice, will I continue to wander? Will I come upon possibilities only imaginable because memory has given me new eyes, and a renewed commitment to life?
I can see Jerry’s grin, and I can hear him…
“Good job, Mil.”