I am grieving again, another broken heart. Not the loss of romantic love this time, not overtly anyway. But loss, big loss washing over me, slamming into me like waves against a seawall, leaving salty water splashed all over the shore. To leave one thing--one life--for another is not tragic. I chose this new thing, this new place. There is love here, too. But I have lost other loves in other places, and the pain is as acute as any breakup. I go back to the city, but have no home there. I impose on friends. I share my tears with them. For much of the weekend I felt like I was barely hanging on.
He is endlessly patient with me. He knows that part of this is about him, about our friendship and my fear of losing it, about all the big messy deep feelings I have for him. We go to one of our favorite places, a place where we have a favorite waitress who knows just what to bring. I relax with the alcohol; am comforted by being in that familiar place full of good memories and good food.
Here, I walk every day--long walks along the shore and out to the old fort. The wind is strong. I keep walking in order not to face it, but I get to the lighthouse and have no choice but to turn around and lean into it howling around my ears. My face and legs are tingling with cold, almost numb, but my heart beats strong. I am so tired, but I keep walking because I have to get home.