At the Middle and at the End

After working with my computer and developing training related to the National Electrical Code for the better part of seven hours here at my house, I decided to take a long walk along the various connecting roads and deer trails in the open range surrounding my home.  About a half-hour into my hike, I came upon what turned out to be the end of the trail for a deer.

I paused there at the scene of one more crime. 

I snapped a photograph with my Droid.

As I walked on a little more, the thought occurred to me that, in less than a fistful of days, I will reach the exact two-year mark since the passing of my sweet and ever-calm wife.  I reflected on how her stupid body would not even allow her to sit up in bed, thought she really wanted to.  I thought about those last days when I made her comatose with drops that I placed like precious jewels onto her tongue.   I remembered how I squeezed at her fingers as she expelled her very last breath and let go.   And then I thought about how I looked over to our daughter, standing there on the other side of the bed, and said, “She is gone.”

Two strangers came in the dark of night and took my wife away from me.

Somewhere on a trail not far from the end of the line for that deer, a great sorrow overwhelmed me.  I stopped walking and began sobbing outright there in full sunlight.  I cannot explain the depth of the sorrow I felt.   I can only say that the weight of it eventually dropped me to my knees.  I covered my face with my hands and wept, and wept, and wept until I could weep no more.

I just wish she had been able to go beautifully. 

I have plans to make new of all the old relics that crashed in my old life.  My sorrow for then does not diminish what I feel for others now.  I am still whole.  I have room to grow.  But sometimes, when I am pulled back, the sorrow is overwhelming.

After my episode of sadness, I pulled myself upright and started walking again through the blue grama and sage.  A meadowlark trilled from a nearby juniper snag.  And I had not gone all that far before a pretty stone caught my eye.  I picked up the stone and rubbed at it.

Lovely.  Smooth.  Rainbowed with colors.  Both ancient and new.

I thought about how, as third-grade boy, I invited my very first “girlfriend” over to my house so she could see my rock collection.  I recalled how my daughter’s husband won her over with the presentation of a pretty rock he found on their first hike together. 

I walked on, rubbing the stone in my right hand and enjoying the completeness of just that one small thing.

This stone is for the second half of my life.

--Mitchell Hegman