It's the Thanksgiving holiday weekend. I'm alone even though I reside in a shared bedroom with a 78-year old woman. I'm alone in this skilled nursing facility housing 100+ souls. I'm reconciled to my aloneness. My heart doesn't hurt. At least not today. I hold hope in my heart that my husband will visit. He begged off taking me to church this morning citing snow yet the roads are clear. But I hold hope nonetheless.
I have God. I know I do. He never leaves me and carries me every day, every minute. Especially when I'm weak and in despair.
Orange, gold, rust, burnt sienna, ochre, raw umber; the riot of fall colors, in the trees and at our booted feet; a drive in the countryside; the taste of hot apple cider on my lips; the satisfaction of a truckload of firewood we gathered and cut ourselves; elk herds on the move; hearty stews, savory soup, crusty whole-grain bread, pumpkin and gingerbread spice lattes; these are the memories I tap into the most this time of year. Cabela's fliers in the mailbox; Carhart's camo-clad hunters swarm outlying areas; mushroom garthering; huckleberry picking; logger burgers; forest service roads; cheese sandwiches on the woodstove; warm quilts, cool sheets, and flannel nightgowns; cold butt, warm heart. Immensely grateful to have the well of memories to draw upon.
Comments
Post a Comment