Holes to Fill

Holes to Fill

         Sunshine beckoned me from the darkness of the living room. I found a shovel and began digging a hole, It wasn't the first time. Sam sat nearby watching. I could have raked the yard, cleaned out the pool or picked up the branches blown from the trees, but I dug a hole. The ground was damp and it was easy work and not long the hole looked like a small grave. Sam came and inspected the hole, smelled it and appeared to have little interest. He lay in the sun unaffected by my work, living in the moment worrying about nothing. I wondered what I would do with the hole and sat beside it thinking. I could climb down, squeeze in and position myself to pull the dirt in after me, handful by handful or I could wait for the dogs to get bored and claw the dirt back in. How easy it would be to fill the hole with myself and, like the dogs, delight in the moment as long as it would last.

         Eighteen months ago tragedy struck and my life came to a screeching halt. I've started over again at least 18 times since then, never finding the method, rhyme or reason that would fill the void. Truth be told, I'm tired of starting over. My whole life has been about starting over and filling the holes time and again. This time I'm fresh out of ideas. Ernest and Missy trot out of the bushes and join Sam, rolling around on their backs, just being free and happy that I am with them. They too experienced loss, but it seems as if they've moved on with their lives, interested only in their present enjoyment. I envy them.

         My grief counselor, family and friends are frustrated with me. Support has become difficult for them as I continuously spurn their attempts to both comfort me and push me out of the abyss into something more interesting for them. I've soothed their feelings of duty by reluctantly returning to church. The one across the road from my new home, so close I could step off my front porch, fall down and after a few rolls land in the parking lot. It pleases the congregation that I attend from time to time and encourage me to come more often. They offer their kindness and ask me to visit them. They pledge their help for anything I might need. They are grateful for their lives and count their blessings with vigor. I do not. I've forgotten how, I think.

         With my legs dangling in the hole I watch the dogs, and wonder what it must feel like to be them. Carefree and concerned only for their meals. One chases bugs, another finds imaginary movement in the grass and they all rush over to see what treasure they think has been found. Ernest retrieves a dirty, weather-beaten tennis ball in the grass and runs to give it to me. Instead, he drops it in the hole and backs up watching me, acting as if he thinks it's funny. And, it is.

         For all my prayers for relief of anguish and the tears I've shed searching for answers, I have just been shown how it is done. Simply, with no fanfare, Ernest has filled my hole for me with his one, most favorite possession. He looks in the hole and then at me. I look back and say, "Tell it good-bye". He trots off to join the others and for the first time in 18 months I am thankful. As I finish what Ernest began, I feel as if I can count my blessings; one, two, three. Ernest, Missy and Sam.