Camino Santiago Portugese

(Hankies, ya’ll.)

I wake early today, 5 a.m., compliments of paper thin walls and the boisterous German fellows in the room next door. They are off on their Camino within minutes, leaving me unable to roll back over into slumber. I check my phone for the time: 5:26, and realize I forgot to text Kory goodnight. Again. I’ve been texting him goodnight pretty much without fail every night since he died Aug. 6, 2020. My therapist at one point suggested this was not healthy, but I shut her down right quick.

Now I’m thinking about the rock, or more about how I’ve forgotten all about the smooth heavy oval with “❤️ Big Show. I miss you, Dolly.” It’s in my hip bag, heavy at a time when heavy things require consideration. And I haven’t thought of it in days.

Another idea sideswipes me - one I do not want to confront. And then, because I don’t wanna do this and my subconscious doesn’t care,, a half dozen imagined moments swirl all at once. I see myself in my grief reaching for an imagined scruff of Kory’s beard, just there along his jaw where it it sharpest; and I feel of his chest under his shirt, his arms around me during out last hug. These are my go-to grief thoughts.

I also see an ending. One I’ve been avoiding a long time.

Now, I’m weeping and chanting, “ok, ok, ok, ok, ok…” over and over again. Thoughts and images keep coming. I imagine my hands on his chest, and then he is standing next to me holding my hand. He has not been next to me since he died, but always in front where I can reach for him, grasp for him.

I am still chanting, “ok, ok, ok” because for the first time I am considering NOT texting him goodnight, and I know what that means. It means breaking the last strand between us.

I find my way to the shower. I am sobbing, because I realize this last strand is on me. I made it, and I’ve been dedicated to keeping it tight and strong for nearly three years.

I pull myself together enough to get croissant and coffee at the restaurant around the corner where I ate last night. The waitress draws a heart in the foam of my cafe con leche. This makes me smile. It’s a brief and necessary respite.

I pass the ugly Mondo Sofa building and enter a glade of trees. I’m crying again before long, thinking of my grandmothers and past tense verbs. At some point, both my Grandma Rose and Grandma Helen started speaking of my dead grandfathers in the past tense. I ty it: “I loved you.” God. It’s daggers and swords, a physical and sharp pain.

I take an obligatory, Facebook, flowers-in-my-hat, happy selfie. But it’s a lie. I’m crying almost constantly, using my cooling scarf to blow my nose. I suck up my sniffles as several dozen pilgrims pass by. I shove more flowers in my hat. There are so many, it makes me laugh. This is not a lie. I’ve walked hand-in-hand with joy and sorrow these last three years. They aren’t enemies. They’re fraternal twins.

It occurs to me that this ribbon of wishing and wanting that I’ve tied so tightly with my grief is holding him here. He would never leave with me still needing him. We all know this about him: he would do anything for me.

So now I’m weeping profusely. Because I do not want to let him go, but I know I will - because he is my love, because I will always put him first, too. And now that I see it clearly, I have to do this.

I do not believe in heaven, or that we somehow maintain some form of self after we die. I’ve always argued that the last thing that the cosmic dust left when we die would want is to be bound to its corporeal body. If there is a thing like heaven, it must be the blessed release of all the ego and id that tortured us while we were humans. When I ‘talk’ to my beloved Grandma Rose in trying times, I imagine it’s quarks and leptons of some Grandma Roseish type of cosmic magic come together for a brief time. I know it isn’t her.

It won’t be Kory either. I’m going to have to cut this last strand and let him fizzle off into bits and pieces of the not-broken, not- suffering whatever he will be next. To set him free, I’ll have to free myself, whether I like it or not.

I take a real selfie of my profoundly sad, flower clad self. I’m not really looking forward to being free.

The rest of my day is spent weep-walking the 10 miles (which were supposed to be six) to my accommodation at the edge of Santiago. I have a few moments of joy thinking of the boys, who are flying to meet me tomorrow. But mostly, it’s weeping.

At about eight miles, I come across a graffiti covered tunnel with a small path leading to it. The light is bright on the other side. The ferns are lit iridescent green and there is a golden glow from the sun. Aren’t I just the biggest sucker for symbolism. A bit further along, two butterflies dance together, swirling up and up.

Oh, come ON!

An then, high in the trees the wind pushes against the leaves, making that shushing sound that Kory loved; and he is talking to me…It’s time to go.

“Fine. But you have to come back and visit me sometimes.”

More weeping ensues. I come out of the woods into the edge of the suburbs. Jake texts, “The Hansens are in Spain!!!” It’s a reminder that I have other ties to attend, ties to - these two beautiful kids, and lots of other pretty lovely folks. It’s a respite.

Then, more weeping. It’s been four hours How is there still more weeping?

Later, I am in the shower at my bed and breakfast, crying, and I call out in my mind for him. And I hear, “It’s only been four hours.” It’s the kind of joke we adored as a couple: a gentle, loving teasing. And whether it’s Kory or my conjuring of him, it is enough. If I can laugh, I’ll be ok.

My husband died 2 years and 9 months ago, give or take. It’s taken me all that time, these 21 days, and 160-plus miles for to finally really let him go.

It’s gonna hurt like hell for a while.

Because I miss him.

Because I loved him.

That’s why I set him free.Meer informatie