cotton

As I type, I sit in a kitchen I've known for years, with people who've known me since the day I was born. There is a wonderful comfort in it, a sense of belonging and value and feeling like you fit, even though often I realize my experiences cast me in a separate mold that certainly has its own form and shape. It's easy to compare yourself and feel like no one understands; easy, because it's true. But the challenge is in knowing it and still, still leaning out for that warmth and familiarity in what you do have in common with those you love. Sometimes that commonality is as simple and deep as bloodlines. I am thankful I can look around this room and call these people, not only in love but in reality, family.

So the trip to Texas has gone well. I suspected it might, suspected I'd be glad I came and thankful to be surrounded by these faces. The first few days were filled with busyness; the world was new and fresh, not being the one I stomp around in most days, and distracting. There was laughter and lots of deep talks and even a ride on horseback for me, which basically equated to feeling like a part of me was living that hadn't in a long, long time. I started riding when I was five; I was never that great, but I did find a sense of freedom and joy in it that little else could match. Having been away from it for several years, it was refreshing and vitalizing to be "back in the saddle." Indeed, just what I needed.

I am now in the tiny West Texas town my mom grew up in, a town that feels as timeless and constant to me as almost any place on Earth. I have come here every single summer - and sometimes, Christmases - of my life and very little has changed. There's something deeply calming about that. This would be a place that Copeland would have come to know, too, and I find my heart aching in new ways knowing I'll never get to share it with her. Still, what makes it beautiful is simply a small part of where she is already.

I don't remember ever having come here in the fall, and as I walked alone down the highway towards my grandfather's grave in the local cemetery, I was pleasantly suprised to see tufts of white scattered every few feet: cotton. The fields have only just been stripped and what remains of the little snow-colored plants drifts out onto the road with the wind, catching on brambles and rocks. I had cotton bolls in my bouquet when Conor and I were married and of course I've known that they are inherently a part of my history and, thus, a part of me, but I'd never really seen the stuff or touched it before. Walking along the highway I held some in my hands and marveled at how soft it is, even straight out of the ground. The wind was particularly fierce that afternoon and as I approached the cemetery I thought of Copeland as I held that cotton in my palm - how its sweet, soft warmth would be cast off the moment I let it go, just as she was. Only with her, I didn't let go. My hands were wrenched open.

I stood in front of my grandfather's grave and felt a sort of comfort in knowing he is with her, that although she has been carried off she is not alone. I let the cotton go, just to see what happened - to see how far the wind would carry it. It flew from my hand and caught, about ten feet away, on the ground - and stuck. The dramatic image was skewed a bit... I had almost hoped it would sail away like some red balloon until I couldn't see it any longer.

I write all of this in the midst of yet another season in the grief. It's pressing in, the weight of it, and I wondered last night if perhaps that's because I'm ready for it to. Maybe I can bear it more than I could've a few weeks ago. I can only hope that I, too, will be carried.

My heart aches for those who've gone before me on this path - those who know the ache and agony of losing someone they never really got to know. And my heart aches for those who are walking behind, who have yet to tread here, where I am. Pray for them. Pray that they will be reminded that what has come from God is good, that what has returned to Him is blessed, and that the time that passes until we are all together once again - well, that is as fleeting as a breath, a vapor, a gust of wind.