Letter to an Old Friend

I ran into you today.

At the antique shop on Middleton and Lilly. The day started like every other Saturday since I’ve been here. I had the pleasure of waking up to the sound of Sam Cooke, courtesy of my not-so-courteous neighbor, Kevin. No matter how often Mrs. Lennox from across the street complains about it, I think we all get a kick out of how passionate he is about his music. I turned off my, at that point, useless alarm clock and walked over to close the window, but not before letting the sun dance a few numbers across my face. Deep breath in, slow breath out…Thank you God for another day. Last night’s holiday party left me with a parting gift so I took an Excedrin and bee-lined to the kitchen for breakfast where I was quickly reminded that a trip to the market was the first thing on my to-do list for the day. I got showered, dressed and headed out. Despite my usual attempt to escape the driveway without the music lesson from Kevin, he delayed my morning by only 4 minutes this time. Asking if I’d tried any of the museums he’d recommended. Being new in town kind of makes you a target for unsolicited recommendations. I nodded and promised to check one out this weekend.

On the way to the market, I passed the river and thought of you. That was always our thing. Finding a spot near a body of water. To reminisce. To cleanse. To release. Seems weird to visit one without you. I thought about how far I’d come, how far we’d come. It’s been four months since I moved here. Four months since I last saw you. I was unsure if moving here was the best thing for me but leaving everything behind was just what I needed. The hurt, the disappointment, the questions, the guilt…you. And for the past four months, life has been showing me that I made the right decision. So why was I thinking of you now? My decision to let go wasn’t easy. You were all I knew. You were patient, allowed me to be me, loved me, comforted me and made me feel safe. You were familiar. Walking away was difficult but necessary. I knew I wouldn’t be strong enough to leave you if I stayed.

The market was a nightmare. A flood of likeminded people making the same poor decision to grocery shop on New Year’s Eve. As I waited in line, I did my usual people watching. Creating stories about everyone around me. I became fixated on a little girl a few spaces ahead. She was wearing a polka dot dress with a matching bow. Holding a drool-covered dolphin that appeared to have been stitched up quite a few times, her eyes locked on mine…and she smiled. I smiled back. It wasn’t the usual bright-eyed, giggly type of smile toddlers tend to give me when I see them. This smile felt different. For some odd reason, the way she smiled at me made me feel like everything was gonna be ok. It felt good. And I felt normal. I’ve learned to acknowledge those moments, where I feel normal. Because feeling normal means I no longer need you.

As I was leaving the store, I passed by that small antique shop. The same shop I’d passed many times on my trips to Lakeside. But this time, through the window in the far back corner, something caught my eye. I walked in and was greeted by the smell of furniture polish and baked goods. The shop attendant offered me macaroons, I declined. His unsolicited lecture on porcelain dolls faded into the background as I walked to that far back corner. And there is was, a wooden barn owl. I remembered the last time I was one. Laughter and love kept me company that day. Mama and I spent the day baking nut breads and her locally famous fruit cobblers for the school bake sale. Her love for owls started as a child and followed her through adulthood. 2 states, 4 homes and 3 children later and the sight of one still took her breath away. The kitchen dressed in owl themed decor, from the clock on the wall with the broken minute hand she refused to replace, to the hand painted fruit bowl (by yours truly), to the padded floor mat where she’d stand hours on end kneading dough. We’d had many talks in that kitchen. The sun would shine through the window like a spotlight on the island. Speckles of cinnamon and flour dancing in its rays. I was standing over the sink scrubbing the blueberry stains I’d gotten from picking berries in the yard when she lifted my chin and pointed. And there it was. It was the first and only time I’d ever seen a barn owl in daylight. She’d always believed owls are guides, and to see one means you are protected and on the right path. At that time, I didn’t realize how much that day would mean to me. I wish I knew that would be the last time I’d see her. Laugh with her. Cry with her. Hug her. Feel her. See her, seeing me. I would’ve hugged her a little longer, laughed with her a little louder.

She took a piece of me with her. Losing her broke me. Losing her brought me you. And I found comfort, in you. So, I sat there in that antique shop. Tears falling like fresh rain onto this wooden owl. And in that moment, I realized you never left. I’d convinced myself that things were good. I was good. She always said Grief has a way of showing up and reminding us that we’re still healing. She knew you well with her fair share of loss. I understand now what she meant. It could be a song, a scent, a familiar face or place or thing. You will find a way to reach me, until I heal.

I thought I was healed.

But I ran into you today.