In April, it will be three years since Jeff died. The intense grief is gone, a memory now. In 21 years together, he rarely bought me a gift. It may sound callous to some, but I learned his death was his greatest gift to me. He gave me the freedom to write.
I hadn't written much in the ten years before his death and less than 48 hours after he died, I wrote a poem. Then another, and another. Poems of grief. That November, I wrote 30 poems. In the two years since moving to Iowa, I've written over 100 poems.
I can't recall the author, maybe Doris Lessing, who believed a writer needs to live alone. Even if she didn't say it, I think there are many poets and writers who believe this. I think I'm a believer too.
It's not that I've written volumes of fantastic poetry, there are probably only a handful worthy of publication. The thing is, living alone, I've been able to write poems whenever I felt like it. I can turn off the television, play classical music, stare mindfully into the night sky, and imagine lines of poetry. There's no one here to ask what I'm doing, and the dogs are content to nap beside me while I write (Joey's doing that right now).
On the other hand, I'll be 53 in March. I'm definitely not dead and still find men attractive. Though I relish my quiet and solitude out here in the Big Woods, I have sacrificed any chance of meeting someone (Iowa recognizes gay marriage, but that doesn't mean we're hanging out on street corners in small towns).
I could go to a gay bar, but that's a good 45 minute drive, and I'm not exactly into the bar scene. I joined an online dating site, but it's proved an empty pond and a waste of money.
All this has kept me up nights thinking about what the rest of my life is going to be like. Perhaps I'm fretting too much and should just let things play out, however that plays.
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