I come to know aloneness, intimately, when I remember the fogs that Sam and I stood in… Harkness Gardens in Connecticut and the beautiful image in the distance, the broken fog. I leaned against him to enjoy together. And he is no longer here.
Then there was the fog of Bar Harbor, Maine, the year we couldn’t see in the distance beyond it and had the experience of studying that which was beneath us and closely all around. The boys, came up to us and we were all together – a family.
The family still exists, though, distant somewhat, with their own. The intimacy still exists on a different level and though they say he’s with us in memory, they can’t miss the feel of him against my body. Memories don’t quite suffice and the gratitude for having had it exists always.
The intimacy of aloneness, what does it mean? I surround myself with stories when I think and look at things, and they are not the stories of Sam or us. They are the stories I make up from what I currently see.
Would stories from the past make a difference? I think not. It’s being in the present that will most empower me, knowing I’m blessed with those intimate memories, plus the love notes and photos from Sam still present in my home as well as my heart.
(Note: This writing came out of a visualization, breathing exercise, in Julie Jordan Scott’s Writing Intensive Winter Camp. Thank you, Julie.)