Learning to Walk Again

Long before Jody died,
I had already made a quiet decision:

if something ever happened to her,
I would leave the home
where my children had grown
and move closer to the sea.

So when the unthinkable arrived,
the decision was already waiting.

Leaving was easier than I expected.

Perhaps I had been preparing all along—
loosening my grip on possessions,
letting go in ways
I did not yet understand.

I found a small condo near the beach,
already holding everything I needed.
I packed lightly
and moved with my partner,
whose story will come later.

That first year,
the ocean became my witness.

Each day I walked the shoreline—
weeping,
sometimes screaming into the wind,
learning how to carry
a grief too large for language.

Every morning
was its own battle.

Part of me wanted
to disappear beneath the covers
and surrender to sorrow.

But somehow,
I kept choosing movement.

I did not know
what healing looked like.
I only knew
I had to keep walking—

one broken, faithful step
at a time.