I had dragged my husband to an Indigo Girls concert. We arrived late, general admission tickets in hand. The place was packed. Making our way through the legion of fans, we scanned the crowd and searched for an open space on the lawn. Suddenly I heard someone calling my name.
Two close friends and their group of six or eight friends were sitting close to the stage on several blankets. They had food and a cooler filled with beer. My husband smiled. Later, he mentioned that he didn’t often have the opportunity to hang out with so many attractive women who love women. He would never admit to actually enjoying their music, but his eyes were appreciative as the women took the stage and their voices rang out, strong and true.
As the music began, the sun began to slip beneath the horizon, creating a vast sunscape of gentle pastels on a perfect skyblue canvas. The air was warm and wonderful, and we were surrounded by happy souls who sang into the night.
The next day the world came crashing down.
I lay stunned in the rubble, beneath invisible rocks forcing me to stretch and lean and move painfully in order to get up.
But I got up.
The journey of grief is deceptive. It takes unknown turns though empty hallways and tricks the traveler as she makes her way through a labyrinth of loss.