And so I wrote. Poems filled with my
grief, my anger, my confusion. My wonder.
A year later, I loaded my belongings and my dog, Jack, and returned to Iowa
where I grew up. I moved into my father's lake home in the tiny
village of Delhi in Delaware County.
I found a job as a short-order cook in
a small diner, a place where farmers gather in the early morning to
gab over coffee and eggs. "We're like a family here," the owner's wife told me the first day. It was a far-cry from retail manager, but I found the artistry in working the grill. And I found a family.
I'd only been in Iowa three months
when I met Joey, a fat ball of black fur and the saddest puppy eyes.
He was leashed with a bit of twine and two young girls were
desperately trying to find homes for him and his three sisters.
I wrote more poems that fall and
winter; poems about Iowa, about the farms and the churches, about the
quiet. I still grieved for Jeff, but there was a shift, a turning, a
discovery that I was going on and surprisingly, it was okay.
My second winter is coming. Joey is a
big, lovable teddy bear of a dog, and he and Jack make an odd pair.
The three of us crawl into bed at night, the best threesome I've ever
had.
And recently, I noticed, grief slipped into memory.
In theory,
you let go.
