TRUSTING WATER TO HOLD ME
By Patty Somlo
Overlooking my favorite free library box, the magnolia tree has birthed its first tentative blossoms. At the far-right corner of my backyard, the Quince has come alive, its shade impossible to describe. Not quite orange nor red, but also not pink, the flowers are some mixture of all those tints. Daffodil stems by the front walk, the decade-old bulbs grow taller by the day. Since a rainy week is forecast, I know the blossoms won’t survive.
I’m on the cusp of my third spring without my husband Richard. As someone whose moods can easily be shaped by light, I start to brighten as days grow longer with less rain and more sun. Even in grief, moments of joy sneak through. At the same time, I’m reminded how little I know myself, now that the best part of my life is gone.
***
Grief from losing a spouse is a secret shared mostly, but not exclusively, by women. It reminds me of when I was young, suffering once a month with aching cramps that made me want to stay in bed all day. That was another secret we women shared, the worst exposure a red leak letting everyone know, especially guys, you were in that hidden state.
***
A widow traveling the world alone, I notice what I never paid attention to before. Nearly everyone has a partner. At airports I frequent these days, heading for destinations I hope will take me outside myself, hardly anyone is alone. Waiting in line to drop off my suitcase, grabbing a cup of coffee, or having my photo taken before setting my turquoise backpack on the conveyor belt to be x-rayed again, I mostly daydream. Mothers corral small children or share whispered secrets with spouses. Without Richard here to lift the red suitcase I’ve packed to bursting, I watch my bag ride around the carousel before gathering strength to retrieve it.
More than loneliness accompanies me. An inner voice, sometimes Richard’s, congratulates me each time I lift that bag to the ground or pass the myriad tests set out these days for travelers—checking in for a flight, printing a baggage tag and threading it through the suitcase loop, carefully sticking the two sides together—tasks that used to be done by airline employees.
***
Nothing prepares us for being left alone. Most women will one day end up in this state. Widows outnumber widowers in the United States four to one, since women live longer than men and many marry men who are older. After losing a spouse, we suddenly find ourselves with hours, days, weeks and months of time to fill, in some way that concerns no one but us.
***
The late poet Mary Oliver posed a question in one of her beloved verses. I paraphrase the question as, What will you do with your life?
In that line, Oliver makes clear that we’re given only one life. The life we’re allotted is special, so we need to make the most of our time.
It’s easy to live as if death only comes for other people. It’s easy until serious illness and death edge close to your life.
To witness the end, when breath stops, a heart quits beating, and the life you’ve shared with a person you love leaves the room, never to return, makes the fragility of life plain. Every moment after, you can’t help but hear Oliver’s question and know that finding the answer must be your most critical task.
***
Each time I prepare to leave town, I drop down into despair. In those moments, Oliver’s question vanishes from my mind. Instead of traveling in search of a response to Oliver’s important query, I want to crawl under the covers, imagining Richard will suddenly be lying next to me, quietly snoring. As I count the days and nights I will be gone, calculating how many changes of pants and tops I need, I think what a bad idea it was to be joining this trip, traveling with a group of strangers to an unknown place.
I take my habitual neighborhood walk, on a day the sun graces the leaves on trees I pass, causing them to shimmer. I wonder why I thought I needed to leave home to feel happy. My stomach clenches, as I run through the tasks required of me in the coming days, finding my way through unfamiliar airport terminals and checking into hotels I haven’t previously visited.
Before I’ve walked the blocks I know by heart, a voice in my head reminds me there is value in this travel, especially because of the challenges. I am old, and it would be easy to lapse into simply existing as an elderly woman, incapable of attempting anything new, different or risky. Without children or grandchildren, I’m left with no one but myself to solve whatever problems arise in my life. Like any machine, I must keep my body and mind well-oiled and tuned up. More than anything, travel, I believe, will do that.
***
But what about Mary Oliver’s question, “Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your wild and precious life?” What will I do with this one solitary life?
After Richard died and the silence throbbed around me, I told myself that finding meaning and purpose had to be the reason for getting up each morning and venturing out. More than two years have passed and I’m waiting for a light to flick on and lead me down a road I’ve never traveled, taking me some place, like Oz, where a booming voice will announce, what you’re searching for is here.
Unfortunately, living each day with deep purpose is not as easy as I’d hoped. I admit my life before now was often like riding in those Disneyland bumper cars I adored as a child. While I wanted to create a well-thought-out plan for my life, such a rational straightforward journey has continued to elude me.
***
On a recent trip, I donned a thick black wetsuit for the first time, then stepped on a boat, captained by a smiling overweight man named Cameron. His assistant was a funny, friendly woman named Samantha, wearing a shocking pink shirt with large white letters on the back that spelled out CREW.
We sailed past other white boats, bobbing next to docks that led to houses and shops. Then we picked up speed and my heart quickened.
As wind forced my hair back and sunlight winked off the waves, I wondered, might this be it? Might meaning and purpose exist in moments of ecstasy, when water and light, and birds flying past and landing, cause a brief but true sensation that I am free, headed for something unknown, just waiting to be discovered? Might this be all I need?
Once we’d stopped and the boat was anchored, I carefully walked to the stern, sat down, my legs dangling loose, and slid one long rubbery flipper on my right foot and then my left. I pulled a mask down over my eyes and nose, then eased the mouthpiece of the snorkel tube between my lips. Without another thought, I dropped into the ocean, which I discovered was cold and surprisingly dark.
***
My clearest and happiest memories of a childhood I’ve mostly forgotten were times spent in water. The summer before I turned six and entered the first grade, I learned to swim. The pool sat across the street from our narrow duplex. Decades have passed since we lived there, and I swam in that pool. Yet the scene has stayed clear and vibrant in my mind all these years since.
Tossing me away from her in the pool, a short distance from Pearl Harbor on the Island of Oahu, Hawaii, my mother, in a strapless bathing suit covered with bright red hibiscus flowers, ordered me to paddle back. Later in day camp, I learned the strokes—breaststroke, backstroke, sidestroke, freestyle or crawl, and butterfly. Once I mastered swimming, I learned to dive, eventually climbing to the high platform, and executing a tight, tucked roll, before straightening out and entering the water like a sharpened knife.
On the island’s often cloudy Windward Coast, I rode the waves. My back facing the horizon, I waited to feel the tide pulling out. At the exact right moment, I furiously windmilled my arms, until the wave lifted me up and the saltwater and I raced to shore.
I had forgotten how much I loved paddling my feet, trusting water to hold me up. Everywhere I turned, the fish and I were doing just that. After the loneliness and isolation I’d felt since losing my husband, I had the sense, at least in those moments, that I was no longer alone.
***
A dry towel wrapped around me, then I dropped it and pulled on my windbreaker. Samantha handed me a cup of dark hot chocolate.
Starting with a small sip, I felt a contentment that warmed and comforted me, all the way to my feet.
What might I do with the rest of my life, I wondered, as I held on to the side of the boat, watching sparkling blue water pass. Not wanting to be anywhere but here, I realized the answer might be simple. Riding in a boat on a sun-drenched day. Or paddling my feet, letting the ocean embrace and hold me. Watching fish wriggle past, some, such as the parrotfish, with bright turquoise eyes and a body luminescent in shades of yellow and pink. Grateful for moments when I feel as if I am flying, no longer tied down by sorrow or expectations that life must be rigidly planned. Satisfied with occasional moments, when everything feels exactly right.
Patty Somlo’s books, Hairway to Heaven Stories (Cherry Castle Publishing), The First to Disappear (Spuyten Duyvil) and Even When Trapped Behind Clouds: A Memoir of Quiet Grace (WiDo Publishing), have been Finalists in several contests. Somlo (she/her) has had work in Guernica, Delmarva Review, Under the Sun, the Los Angeles Review, and over 40 anthologies. She received Honorable Mention for Fiction in the Women’s National Book Association Contest, was a Finalist in the J.F. Powers Short Fiction Contest, and had an essay selected as Notable for Best American Essays.
Artwork Source: “The Derelict” or “The Lost Boat,” Arthur Wesley Dow. From the Public Domain.
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