As I look back over the passage of the past four years, I’m amazed at the power of time to heal. Wounds are covered with scar tissue, evidence of incredible trauma. Jagged edges of skin, pulled together with the stitches of grace, close the hole. Reminders of the cause of the wound appear less frequently.
As the body heals, so does the spirit. Bobby’s death is no longer a constant stabbing reminder that he’s gone. In its place is deep melancholy. Certain things trigger his memory every day. But I no longer gasp with the shock of his passing. Instead of a splash of freezing water, it’s the constant drip of an errant raindrop in the downspout.
Wounds on the outside, wounds on the inside. They both need time to convalesce. Some physical injuries, like the loss of a limb, take a lifetime. Death of a loved one can be compared to the loss of an extremity. A person learns to compensate, but normal life becomes something different. A new normal. A transition from what was, to what is.