I think of grandmom’s house as Rivendell—quiet home of healing, 8th floor so it’s in the trees, well lit by large windows. Mom’s there for rest, healing, an assisted retreat from the busy boys, and a simpler life for a time.
The simplicity is reciprocated by our home, as the house quiets down after the boys go to bed, and I’m alone in the room with the empty cradle at the foot of the bed. That’s when my heart aches.
It’s not that I sob and wish to be rushed away to her bedside. It’s not that I can’t handle a night without my love. It’s not even that I can’t stand being away from the baby for two days. It’s just that my heart aches, a physical internal soreness that won’t go away.
I realized tonight that the empty room is the trigger. It says, “This is what it could have been like, what it almost was, what some day could be.” The large bed half full, the nightgowns hanging on the bathroom door, the pile of unopened congratulations mail on the dresser…they are all signs of missing, absent, gone.
I asked a friend today what I would have done if she left me with 4 young kids. She said I would have a hard time at first, and then I would get stronger and move on. Just like that.
Then it occurred to me that grandmom’s husband died and left her with 4 young kids. She must have had a hard time at first, and seems to have gotten stronger and moved on.
Maybe that’s why it feels like Rivendell.