The Solace of The Swing

We were lost in the blur of time. A slow, easy, going nowhere Saturday night. Drinking wine, binge watching our current favorite Netflix obsession. Then, making dinner, no agenda, synergy, ease. We made a late meal, time means little these days. Then our internet went out. Like it often does. So we ate and chatted, then he began painting, his zen, and I went to the porch swing to enjoy the sounds of the evening as it slipped into darkness. I sipped wine, listened to the harmonies of the singing insects and rocked myself into an easy rhythm. Earlier we had been out here together, heard Latino music in the air, like a festival that wasn’t. Now it was laced with laughter, conversation. Beautiful and pure. Togetherness. I miss togetherness. 

And the swing wouldn’t just rock. It hit the side of the house, then the porch railing. And back. Off centered, but soothing just the same. During dinner I lost it. But to myself. I need to just hurt sometimes. To feel sometimes. Without an audience. Without worrying him. He cares so deeply. I kept seeing and feeling the effects of not having my finger. Having this recently amputated half finger. Pain. Nothingness. More pain. Mind numbing. I want to feel normal. So I hide. The slow hot tears. And I want to belong. So I feel. The loss, sadness, gratitude. But frequently, during any given time it’s just too much. Can’t we just make one dinner, share an experience without this?

I let the sound of the night lull me as I rock. Clunk. Against the porch railing. Against the house. Then the easy tempo of swinging. Back. And forth. Peaceful. Calming. Sameness. And yeah, I’m drinking wine. But nothing changes the fact that I don’t have a finger. It’s not the biggest deal. Or the smallest. It just is. And tonight it makes me cry. But I know this is me, healing. So I’m on the porch swing. Sipping. Being.

Letting the tears come and the feelings flow. Because that is how acceptance is achieved. Feel. All of it. Then come out of hiding and share it. Feel the love. The loss. The reality. The blessing. 

I wanted to be back inside with him. Like we do sometimes. Me on the couch reading. Him on the couch painting. So peaceful. So separate, but so one. Safe. Familiar. But I couldn’t. Because tears kept creeping from my eyes. Giving me away. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. Ruin all of this loveliness with him by saying, look. I have no finger. I just couldn’t. 

So I said goodnight instead. Kissed him. Lingering and warm. Left him there, to paint. Perhaps to wonder. Better than letting him see.

Tomorrow I will tell him. Because he feeds my hope. He always understands. Always accepts. He respects my quietness. My process. And he deserves everything in me.

(Title Credit, Thanks Barbara Cole)