and hope . . .
Looking out my window before dawn I witness evidence of surviving grief.
Abstract but authentic proof of something deep inside that insists upon living fully alive.
Twinkle lights bordering the walls of a secret garden.
In the Year of our Lord, two thousand twenty one
I lost my beloved husband of fifty-one years.
In the Year of our Lord, two thousand twenty-two
I welcomed my seventieth year on planet earth.
In April, two thousand twenty two
I created a secret garden to inspire hope and life within.
How does one know of a need for a secret garden?
How does one know how to survive grief, loss, sadness, and the inability we humans have to make the world as we wish it to be?
I don’t know.
But I know one thing . . .
This morning I awoke to twinkle lights outside my window and a warm companion in my bed.
Today, this is enough.