Last week I returned, for the first time in about four months, to the local hospice-sponsored bereavement group. This is a drop-in gathering, meeting twice a month, no reservations required.
A friend dubbed this a "bereave-in," a "love-in" for those who have lost, and inevitably are lost. How can it help, he wondered, to wander among those equally sad at their map-lessness?
It was my car's idea, I said. I was headed home when, almost without any assistance from me, I found myself in Hospicare's parking lot, looking at out the gardens so familiar. But I didn't look at Rich's room. I didn't go inside the front entrance. I entered through the lower level, directly into the bereavement room.
Two hours later, did I know where I was?
No, but I knew who I was, at least for that time in that room. A griever. A human being who could admit she was nothing more, who didn't have to pretend. To say Rich's name. To say he was my husband. Who is still my map, still the one through whose eyes I see the world and in whose heart I am still, always, lost.
Candace
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