Something happened this weekend that crushed me. It opened a very recent wound and made me question just how cruel the universe can be. Or maybe it had nothing to do with the universe and everything to do with my consistent affinity towards metaphors found in our everyday lives; my life’s sardonic allegory.
I have taken up biking a few days out of the week for exercise and inner reflection. Riding out into the open green is a mini escape from any struggles, both outer and inner, that I have weighing me down. And, it gives me a chance to visit the grave site of my baby girl, Cringblebelle, my pet rat that died just two months ago. The tree I buried her under was somewhere I loved to visit. I found it, it was mine, and it offered me a small place of refuge and peace.
Well, that is gone.
As I peddled towards the back of the golf course where my tree was located, I was soon drowned in the knowledge that is was no longer present. A huge hole stood in it’s place. I abruptly stopped my bike and just stared at it; a vast nothing where my heart belonged. Tears didn’t even flow. They just weld up in my throat and didn’t dare come up.
I dismounted my bike and walked over to the hole. Not only was my tree gone, but the burial heart I had made for my pet was destroyed, which meant she was most likely gone. I started to dig into the mud with my bare hands. It was glued together, my fingers barely scratching the surface. That wasn’t going to stop me.
I got back on my bike and rode quickly home. I grabbed a hammer, the biggest tool I could carry in my bag, and rode back out.
And I dug. I dug, and dug and dug until my hands, feet, and clothes were covered in dirt. I was bleeding from a cut on my left hand, my body bitten up by mosquitoes, and my skin stinging from sweat. I felt the desperation beating in my chest. As I threw dirt beside me with every hammer strike, I wasn’t just digging for my pet anymore; I was digging to have my life back.
Why, out of every tree in that vast space, did they have to take mine? I cherished that spot and what it meant after losing my marriage, losing my health, losing my career. It was space for healing, for letting out worries and pain. But now it was ruined.
It dredged up all those painful memories of things that were once mine and, like priceless gems, were stolen from me. My heart was so heavy leaned over that empty hole. I looked up into the sky and just screamed. I shouted, “What else do you want from me!” and finally let the tears fall.
I gave up. I couldn’t continue on digging. I couldn’t keep looking for my life that wasn’t there, holding on to a relationship that isn’t there anymore, praying for my health to miraculously come back. It was time to stop living in the past.
I dusted myself off, wiped down the hammer, and placed it back inside my bag. I promised myself to come back out with a large shovel and dig, for one last time, in hopes of finding Cringlebelle’s box, but to calm my spirits and tell myself that it will be ok if I am never able to recover her remains. To finally, let it go.
I will miss my spot. I won’t lie. It feels like all the things I’ve loved have viciously been ripped from me, but this is my narrative, my journey to process through. I was given all of this for a reason and I intend on living out an incredible life despite it all. It will make one hell of a story.
Love, B. R. Wren