When you lose someone, you go through a lot of metaphors. Our vocabulary falters in the face of death. Today is the two-year anniversary of the death of my husband, Jake. It took me about a year to come up with something that felt like it made sense of what I was feeling. In the weeks after Jake died, letters and cards flooded in from friends and strangers alike.
The hope was too tantalizing. Maybe this was the one—this card would explain everything! This letter would give me the reason our lives had been so utterly shattered in an instant. Luckily, the reasons for continuing to live are. But I searched for a way to say what I was feeling.
I love the idea of the divine spark. It crosses a lot of cultures and religions, the idea that you carry a bit of the Creator inside you, that it animates your life. He was here and he was in your face and he was warm and bright. He roared with enthusiasm at the beginning, even the hope of something new, sometimes a little too much.
His glow was infectious, throwing sparks into the night air, silhouetted against a dark sky before they landed on everyone in his vicinity. He mellowed to embers as the night wore on, usually over a glass of bourbon or a beer. I lived seven years of my life looking into a bonfire. I warmed my hands and found comfort in its flame. There were times when I damn near burnt myself or got a giant waft of smoke at exactly the wrong time. The light went out. Imagine staring into a fire, and then suddenly turning degrees to survey the woods behind you.
I was standing in my own life, blinded, blinking away those disorienting shimmery green spots. Life goes on, they say. The fire is gone, life said. Move forward.
