#
Oh, there were early inklings:
the feel of my bat sending the ball over the left-field fence,
speeding in a convertible over the one-lane wooden bridge at 60 m.p.h.
watching the sun set behind Wyoming’s Grand Tetons—
strange times when I somehow escaped the carefully cultivated confines of my mind.
But with no idea what those moments meant, I forgot them.
Only after the Great Loss,
And years of slogging
through missing keys and sleepless nights,
of being terrified strife would strike again,
of sarcasm, swearing, pounding the walls,
of regrets for what I had and hadn’t done,
of downcast eyes and hunched shoulders,
of tears during saccharine movies
and sobbing on anniversaries,
came the song:
Buddy Holly on the car radio after a really bad day.
First humming along, then softly singing,
then louder, louder, until at the top of my lungs:
“It’s so easy to fall in love!”
Broken open,
releasing embarrassment, lethargy, fear, anger, guilt, shame, and sorrow.
Later, I realized how foolish I must have looked to other motorists.
But I didn’t care. There was no going back.
No retreat. No surrender.
No forgetting such a gift.
##
The Geriatric Pilgrim: Traveling the Landscape of Faith and Grief 