The Bear

Oh my gosh, here it comes again. I'm sitting with my morning coffee looking up at a lapis blue sky, watching the tiny chick-a-dees and little finches clean out what remains of the sunflower and niger seeds.  Last year at this time the bear rose from the forest tramped across our backyard, up to the same window, bent the iron hook in half and carried the feeder half way across the lawn leaving behind two sets of prints, perhaps a mother and cub?

As I sit, I'm feeling an insistent pressure buckling my motivation to start the day, its weight as if the bear is pushing down on my shoulders, tension behind my eyes building like the melt of Spring's snow about to break the frozen creek banks.

But it's Spring I say to myself and so much to do today.

    Fulfilling projects to work on. 

        Emails to send and lists to complete.

            A repair person to call.

                Correspondence to continue.

                    Outlines to fill in.

The bear holds me down, the creek threatens to overflow. But it's Spring I say.

So much to explore. Things to start, others to finish.

   Winter debris to rake.

        Dogs needing haircuts.

            Walks to take with friends.

                A painting needing paint.

                    Dreams to unfold.

The bear insists. The birds turn their cocky heads to me, seeds in mouth "Why do you still sit?".

It's Spring I say.

    A new season, another first without you. 

        My 64th birthday. The song we ran gleefully out of the church to as first married man and wife. 

            Forever we said, throughout all the bountiful seasons, 'til we died, we said...not imagining we wouldn't have the length and breadth of our parents' lives.

It's Spring I say. I've persisted through so much this year. I take a deep breath. With you I wasn't constantly called to be strong. I could be soft, I could crumble, I could sit. I could get up my, hand in yours. In each other we could simply imperfectly be.

We'd laugh, both disliking that expression "you're so strong", instead finding comfort in each other's hearts. "Strong like a bear" as my grandma-in-law used to say, "warm hands, warm heart."

Folks say this first year or two of widowhood is about learning to survive, survive the flood of memories that each turn takes, the flood of dreams and hopes, the flood of loneliness and of being without you. Like the bear surviving, tucked within her den, dreaming of the seasons of her life.

The banks break and silently tears come. I look to your empty chair brushed with Spring's morning sun. The bear decides to dream just a bit longer.