and the grass grows on

Sometimes I wonder what it’s like for soldiers who return to the battlefield after the war.
What they feel as they survey these great spaces of meaning — now empty fields and beaches, existing on as though nothing ever happened.
The waves crash. The grass grows. The world turns forward.

That’s how it feels when I think about my life —
the life I lived once.
The life before the boy left.

As I survey the not-so-great (okay, well great to me — I love it and my zebra rug) expanse that is my living room, I remember.

This time last year, I was lost and grieving, crying nearly every day.

I think back to those long commutes down Peachtree St.
Tears to work.
And tears fro.
So many tears.

There’s a piece of my heart that wishes it could push itself backward and tell that brokenhearted man, “It’s gonna be okay, baby.”

Because it is okay.

I can see my tea kettle spewing steam in the kitchen. I can’t hear it over the upbeat but soft pop music I’m listening to.

“I see you. Quit bitching,” I say as I turn off the eye.

The A is quiet tonight. Sometimes you can hear the rush-hour traffic below on Ivan Allen — the suburbanites headed for the interstate.

Headed home.

The sun is turning in, and my favorite neighbors — the hawks that live on the W Hotel — are making one last pass for the night.

I feel content.

I never thought I’d feel that. I remember thinking I wouldn’t ever be able to live here. Too many memories.

But the heart heals.

And the world turns.
And the grass grows.
And you eat sushi with friends.
And you see the world.
And you laugh again —

I promise.