In The Waste Land, TS Eliot’s poem opens with, “April is the cruelest month…” but somehow December seemed crueler this year. November 29th was the closing on the sale of the house. The month before the house was cleared and I moved northwest to Mobile with boxes of stuff and clothes I may never wear again. Eliot was remarking on the cruelty of hope amidst the barren post-war world. For me hope seemed callous and cruel in the wake of loss, shedding and change.
December’s festival held no thrill of anticipation, but only a solid empty, numbness. There was my birthday, Christmas, our anniversary right in a row, melded together, really, and little to celebrate, to my mind. Moving to Mobile and settling into my daughter’s guest room was the cocoon I needed to reshape and revive myself. A different state. A different state of being. I am a widow now. A new label. Surrounded by the kindnesses of my daughter and her husband, who opened their home to me, and bolstered by the unconditional love of their seven dogs, who needed me and accepted me, was a buffer against the world I left. I was healing. I felt useful, but also extraneous at times. Where would I fit in again? When would I return to myself the New Year brings the opportunity to start over, to start fresh, to turn a page. I make plans, buy plane tickets, reserve hotel rooms for trips to Rome and Greece, and stay busy in the process of looking to the future. I had mailed Christmas cards with my new return address. These were sent to familiar addresses from my former life, the life that ended on October 5th with the delivery of the final death certificates to close all accounts. In January I flew to Spain to stay with my son and his wife and to reacquaint myself with my two granddaughters. Granada is a jewel box of a city with the Albayzin Barrio, which means "quarter of the falconers" and which leads up the Cerra del Sol to the Alhambra and Generalife Gardens. The backdrop being the Sierra Nevada, the highest point in Spain. The slower pace of Andalusia is welcome.
Eliot’s April was cruel as it offered hope that would not come to fruition. December offered the hope of an approaching new year with new chances to reinvent and reshape myself. I kept Ron’s phone and still open photos taken on our many trips and recall the many moments we shared; we laughed and we loved. I have found a new beginning.
As Eliot writes:
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Mobile Harbor
Historic Mobile