Needing To Break
One of the many reasons why my husband is so good for me is he balances the crazy.
I come to him with ridiculous ideas and he never tells me “No” flat out.
Most times he just redirects my crazy into something productive.
Some thing safer than my original version.
Grief has been doing a number on me.
Most days I don’t have any tears,
until I feel them rolling down my face.
Some mornings I want to eat a box of Twinkies for breakfast,
only to clock five miles on the treadmill in the afternoon.
Screaming, crying, writing, eating and drinking all in excess haven’t eased any part of my broken heart.
So I told The Hero last week that I wanted to start breaking things.
I wanted to watch glass hit and shatter and come apart.
Seeing beautifully decorated tables in magazines, leaves me wondering what all that pottery would look like broken on the floor.
I told him that perhaps watching something else coming undone would help me feel.
Feel what I wasn’t sure.
But I told him I needed to break.
In his perfectly, amazing way he came home a few days later with a giant bag of whole pecans.
“It’s not plates or dishes, but I thought this would help.”
On nights where I struggle most, I release my grip on doing dinner dishes,
grab my bag and bowl and head out to the porch.
A few nights ago, The Hero found me and asked if cracking pecans was any bit of a release for me.
And then suggested he go buy me my own pecan tree.