Other People's Beds - Coming Full Circle

The summer following my husband’s death was spent in other people’s houses.  I traveled to places where, by invitation, I found solace against the penetrating grief that shook my soul.  Friends had offered their homes as healing retreats after Mort’s death.  And so, still numbed by loss, I took them up on their offers.

“You’ll stay with us,” my Virginia friends implored.  “We won’t take ‘no’ for an answer. June in Virginia is lovely.”
Other friends who own a summer house in Maine asked me to join them in August. 

“Houses are meant to be shared,” my Lenox, Massachusetts friends told me in July. “You can hear Tanglewood music from our terrace.”  Listening to Mozart waft through the crisp evening air was hard to resist.  It was also where Mort and I had spent many summer getaway weekends.    
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Cape May and Deal, New Jersey were added to the list. Then, there was Fire Island, where my children spent their summers when my grandkids were little.   Before I knew it, I was packing a suitcase and easing into the role of rotating houseguest, spending time with my gallery of friends and family, who introduced me to the rhythm of their summertime lives and the myriad of activities that went along with it.

 I hiked high up into the hills of the Blue Ridge mountains to commune with nature and its animal inhabitants, some of them, obviously sensing my reticence, had the good sense to leave me alone.  A garter snake slithered by me as I leaned up against a tree to regain my composure.  My usual stash of bottled water was replaced by fresh mountain streams.  Here, all pretenses were dropped and my sadness temporarily dissipated.

Similarly, the Maine trails whose silence was stirred by bird sounds and rustlings gave way to a silver lake shining in the sun, punctuated with little boats against a landscape of green and purple mountains, providing postcard-perfect settings at every turn.

Fire Island was damp and overcast when I arrived on the ferry and into the arms of my squealing grandchildren.  The afternoon threatened rain as we trekked the beach and watched as streaks of sunlight tried hard to work their way through the storm clouds.  Fire Island is beautiful in any season, and when the winds became fierce, we found seclusion indoors, alternating between games of Trivial Pursuit, Monopoly and Shoots and Ladders. One afternoon, I found myself engrossed in play while the parents and their friends took leave, putting me in charge of five children all under the age of seven.  By 5pm I was exhausted.  I took then all for treats, and we ate ice cream in the rain.

And, then there were the naps, where we retired to our rooms without the pressure of schedules or the cacophonous ring of telephones or television sets blasting annoying commercials.  Reclining on other people’s beds to finish a book, seemed at once both comforting and strange.  Sleeping on sheets that bore no resemblance to my own, with pillows that didn’t caress my head exactly right, were unfamiliar to the touch, yet oddly inviting.  Blankets smelled musty, and mattresses, unaccustomed to my body’s contour, dipped and peaked as I searched for a spot that felt secure under me.  Those were the constant reminders that I was not home, while once again, the tug of my loss gnawed at me. But friends filled the void of loneliness and provided solace during those difficult days.  I moved among them all, enjoying their food and partaking of their hospitality.  I was grateful that my grieving was accepted and nurtured.  I needed not to put on airs.  These yellow days filled with light banter and summer conversation softened the hard edges of my pain.

“Do you prefer poached salmon, or leftover cold lobster?” were the most difficult decisions of the day.  Invitations to take the boat out for a spin, run into town or walk a mile up the road to the general store were diversions that were welcomed interludes.  It was a summer of borrowed books from the town library, smearing sun block over a child’s shoulders, dining al fresco, and skinny dipping in the lake in the black of night.
  
 And then, slowly and softly the winds begin kicking up earlier than usual.  Sweaters replaced halter tops, and the first subtle whisper of autumn nudged my senses.  Thoughts of new beginnings took hold as summer began to wind down.  It was time to put away the porch furniture and throw an extra blanket on the bed at night.

 And so, I officially bid a fond farewell to sand in my shoes, damp hair that curled exactly right when exposed to sea air, and to the sounds of motorboats, putt-putting me to sleep.  My legs still bore a slight coating of suntan.  Mosquito bites were itchy reminders that we had  lingered too long on open patios. Children’s voices echoed in the evening air: “can’t we stay outside and play a little longer?” Mental snapshots of my grandchildren jumping the waves and building sandcastles, eating corn on the cob, and catching fireflies in discarded jelly jars, would fill my memory bank for years to come.

 It was a summer of social gatherings; cocktails at sunset on verandas which spilled over the edge of lush gardens with flowers exploding in color against a pink and orange sky.

Lying in other people’s beds reminded me I was not alone.  The loss of my husband had been buffered by a season of kindness and caring, and I slowly began to heal.   But, in the end, it was my bed that knew me best. Nothing could replace the lure of familiarity. Though Mort was gone, the memories lingered on, and I was now ready to embrace them.

A faint hint of my favorite shampoo’s aroma lingered on my pillow.  I ate crackers in bed (Mort’s pet peeve, and I giggled at the thought of his disapproval) without the fear of getting crumbs on other people’s blankets.  I was finally home, the place of intimacy, where I could relax and be completely myself.  I stretched, then curled up in all the right spots, as I drifted off to sleep on an early September night, the bittersweet ending to a summer that had brought me back to life.