Grief's Reckoning-A Different Type of Romance by Louann Carroll #freeshortstory #love #romance #grief

​When I lost my husband after thirty‑five years of marriage, the world folded in on itself. The house felt too large, the silence too heavy, and the future too long and full of shadows. At fifty‑seven, I knew how to be a wife, a mother, a businesswoman and a grandmother—but I had never learned how to be simply myself. I didn't know what I liked, I had no idea how to dress for this new life, and everything was overwhelming, from paying the bills to just getting up in the morning. 

I really wasn't engaged in life at the time. I tried to grow a garden, using my grief as motivation, struggling to keep the overwhelming emotions at bay. If I stayed busy, I couldn't remember the past. I tried enticing flowers to bloom, and went out with friends now and again, though my heart wasn't in it. Nothing in life interested me. Until Daniel. 

Daniel was recently divorced, and I think he noticed in me many of the things he was going through. Perhaps a hesitation in opening my front door, anticipating the emptiness within. I would, and still do, get lost in my thoughts. I can stare at the sky forever, writing little stories, reveling in the sun on my face, ignoring my reality. I thought perhaps we shared the same peace found in nature.  While it is true one can learn how to be alone, loneliness is something else again.  

We became friends. We talked, shared some wine together, he taught me how to grow things, and he bought me a hummingbird feeder. I went to his house where we watched the birds, enjoyed the silence, and I learned to value his friendship. When a problem cropped up, I went to Daniel. He was smart, loved books, and the conversations we had were deep and meaningful. I felt as if I'd known him forever.  Just being with him gave me more peace than I'd experienced in my lifetime. 

One morning in late February, we discussed daffodils. I'd never grown one though I knew what they looked like. He ordered them online and in true fashion forged of grief, I forgot about them. Eventually they arrived. He handed me the bag and I just kind of looked at them.

Bulbs, I thought to myself. What am I supposed to do with them? I knew nothing about gardens or flowers. I mean I tried, but they died. All of them.  I was great at having trees chopped down, not so great at replacing them. 

Eventually, I found the directions. I made a comment about being clueless. He laughed and said he'd help me and we worked side by side all afternoon, planting them in the yard. He poked the ground and I shoved in the bulb.  Just as we were about to finish, he told me he had a date for that night. 

My world collapsed. What would I do without him? Who would I go to for advice? Who would spend time with me?

My grief, which was just beginning to ease, descended with a soul crushing intensity. 

He went out with her, and I assume he fell in love. I would see him now and again. He'd ask me what I was up to, invite me to walk with him, or just stop over. Over time, she disappeared, or at least that's what I thought. Over the next months, we started to talk again. He taught me how to laugh, really laugh. His sense of humor matched my own. He'd listen to my stories and I'd listen to his. He never flirted, never tried to kiss me, or put an arm around me. He never once crossed a line. He simply showed up until I began to expect him. 

He told me such interesting stories about his life, the mistakes he'd made, the things he wished he'd done differently. I listened, surprised by how much I didn't know about men, about relationships, and about myself. One night, as we sat sipping wine and talking, I said, "I think I'm ready to date again." 

He smiled in his disarming way and said, "Good. It's time."  

I looked at him—really looked—and realized I cared for him in a way I hadn’t expected. But I also saw the truth in his eyes: he wasn’t mine to love. His heart was still healing, still searching, still unfinished. He hadn't found his person yet. Or maybe he had and he let her go. 

And yet, through the grief and the tears that were once again resurrected, I realized he gave me so much more than just friendship. He gave me something priceless. 

He had given me back to myself. I had learned to feel again.  The great wall I had built around my heart shattered and I had no choice but to face my fears, my feelings, and myself. Face-to-face, no holds barred, my shadows became my friends, and my power.  I healed myself from the inside out instead of the other way around. True healing never comes from someone else. I learned to trust myself and live. 

Now, every spring the daffodils return—bright, stubborn, hopeful. Every spring, I stand among them, removing leaves so those little bulbs can feel the sunlight warming my face. I whisper a quiet thank-you to the man down the street who never loved me but taught me everything I needed to live again.