The stacks of empty flower pots laying on the floor of the barn unnerved me. The open door washed them in sunlight and dust motes hung in the air of that forgotten part of the nearly abandoned, old barn. The containers were separated in varying sizes and I knew that they had been placed there by worn, experienced hands with the intention that they'd be used again next spring and summer. Well, that was the plan.
The suffocating truth that gripped my throat as I stood and looked at my husband’s most enjoyable pastime – potting plants and starting vegetables from seeds – was that he was never going to get back to what he loved to do. The tattered-looking pots were still here in his beloved barn, but he was gone forever. When he had placed them, sorted and stacked on the wood pallet, he thought he would come through that door again and resume what he was doing: what he did so expertly.
I felt like I had found a half-written symphony or a nearly completed piece of art though I’m sure that sounds overly dramatic. But, you see, this simple task of turning tiny seeds into beautiful, bountiful things was his joy; his passion. And that’s why the empty flower pots my heart broke all over again and my eyes welled with hot tears of disbelief and anger at this turn of events.
There are what I call “land mines” all over this farm; they are reminders of a life too soon extinguished. Every time I run across one I plummet into what feels like a choking, surprise step off a mountain. These extremely personal pieces of who my husband was are what I call his soul. I don’t think “souls” are translucent, transparent, feathery wisps that leave our body when we die and go sit on a cloud forever looking around. I think they’re what we leave behind like a melody that won’t be ignored or forgotten.
I know what you mean.
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