This body likes hiking boots and jeans. It digs deep wide holes for plants and spades out dandelion roots. It likes broad brimmed hats and Vic’s old broadcloth shirts instead of sunscreen. In winter, it pulls on snow pants, down vests, and fleece hats. It appreciates brown rice and organic vegetables. I count on this body, even when I whine about round thighs and wrinkles. Slowly, day by day with me hardly noticing, this body became a gray-haired crone. And I admit that since Vic died, I haven’t done much to decorate the old girl.
In June, she will be part of my son David’s wedding as he takes Liz McFarlane to be his wife. This body needs to do two things: walk with composure at David’s side to give him away to his bride and read a poem by Robert Bly with a few words of my own. I fret about weeping at the wedding without Vic at my side.
“We’ll all cry,” Liz says. “Don’t worry about it.” Continue reading