This fall season has been about boundaries and protection, of fortifying the heart and home against threats past, present and future. It’s strange the way things that have happened so long ago still have the power to hurt, especially when viewed in greater retrospect so that patterns and repeated offenses are seen in their diabolical totality. Perhaps because of the immensity that such realizations occupy in the mind, I’ve had to take things slowly, distancing myself from similar situations and retreating to the people I love and trust.
Thankfully, Andy has been a trooper and pillar of support, even if I haven’t quite shared everything that has been evolving in my head regarding my family. He senses a downtrodden sense of hurt running through my days now, juxtaposed with a sense of freedom that balances things out with a lightness, and I’ve done my best to keep him free of familial drama.
As I navigate how to work through this without burning it all down to the ground, he’s been a kind and patient husband, and last Saturday he turned a dim day into a warm one of holiday happiness, which is the last thing I expected. It began with a ham and cheese omelette (pictures of appreciation in a later post), and as I spent most of the day writing in the attic, he snuck out to pick up our Christmas tree – something he’s done for most of the past twenty four Christmases. I took a nap, and when I woke not only was the house filled with the delightful perfume of fresh balsam pine, there was an intermingling scent of beef stew boiling away on the stovetop. A day of comfort and coziness, courtesy of the person I gave my heart to all those years ago.
