Where is Home After Divorce?

The answer surprised me

After nearly 33 years of marriage, I found myself living alone in a new place. The separation prior to the divorce was a time of clarification for me. The solitude was wonderful. And no walking on eggshells. Our final years together, we lived in a 5th wheel trailer and served as site hosts for a nature center, so the doublewide we purchased 100 miles down the road felt palatial.

I rolled up my sleeves and set about updating the interior. I unpacked boxes that had been in storage for years. Wall décor, said one box. Another said, baking supplies. Dishes, check, coffee pot, oh yes, very important.

What the hell is this box? It is labeled Grief. Evidently, the unwelcomed bastard slipped in underneath the radar and there it was. I didn’t want to open it. But I recalled Mary Oliver’s poem, The Uses of Sorrow.

“Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that this too, was a gift.”

Only my box seemed to have leaked its sorrowful contents inside of all the other boxes. The oil painting I treasured, a gift from him, was dripping in sorrow. The stainless bowl in the Kitchen Aid mixer seemed to echo the voices of my kids when they were young. “What kind of cookies are you making?” And looky here — books! Hello, old friends! I pause to finger pages and drink deeply of their book smell.

Christmas decorations, each one with a memory. The wooden nativity scene we purchased in the Philippines years early. I catch myself wanting to turn around and say, “Do you remember when we…” But there is no one there.

It is only I. And my constant companion Grief.

The thrill of space and an honest-to-goodness working kitchen is tempered by the profound emptiness. There are no holiday meal memories. No dings in the wall from “when one of the kids did…” Nor are there echoes of happy memories.

It is just me. And Grief. I wanted to stuff it back into its box. Come another time, wouldja? Just go away! Don’t you have a house to haunt or something?

Grief held its place. And then it whispered, I have important work to do.

I draw a deep breath and prepare to give my gloomy companion the what for. “Just get the hell away from me. I’ve had enough of your shitty sadness. And besides I have work to do, and many distractions to busy myself with so I don’t have to talk to you.”

I understand, it replied. I will wait for you.

Damn it. Lemme make this clear: GO. AWAY. Don’t let the door hitcha where the good lord split ya!

Great. Now I’m talking to myself.

The boxes held my old life. And the empty house, a new beginning. A chasm lies between the what was and what could be. How do I reconcile this? If felt like oil and water. I knew what wouldn’t happen in the future. No kids claiming what bedroom they wanted. No husband coming home from work here.

I have a house but this is not home. Grief perked up her ears. And then she grabbed a box of tissues. I think she mentioned something about healing tears but I shut her down with a FUCK YOU, as I took an angry swipe at the hot tears.

Where is home when your parents are dead, the marriage is over, and your kids are grown?

If Grief was British, this would be the part where she says, “I’m going to put the kettle on.”

Instead, she settled around my shoulders like one of those weighted blankets. Tell me more, she says.

What the fuck, I say. I didn’t sign up for this. I’ve lost everything. My life sucks.

I know, she replied. I pretended Grief could gently tuck my hair behind my ears, the way mom used to do when I was little. The thought softened the anger. Dammit, I hate it when that happens. Now I am sobbing. At least there is no one in ear shot. I hate crying in front of people.

I hope your enjoying this, Grief.

This is hard, she replied.

Well, no shit Sherlock, I snapped back.

She gave a gentle smile as she reached into another box.

Nooooo! No more grief. Don’t remind me of the losses. ENOUGH!

Where’s the packing tape? I’m going to seal up that box. Or maybe set fire to it.

I was working up a full head of steam.

But it was too late, Grace found what she was looking for and held it up for me to see.

This will help, she said.

More tears. It was an artifact from my old life that had always been placed front and center in the many homes we had lived in over the years. I used it as a reminder to not be an asshole.

She placed it in my hands, I held it and gently brushed the dust off of it.

GRACE.

Yes, I remember this.

This is my gift for you, Grief said. She had my attention now.

Grace and I work together, she said. Always have, always will.

I pondered the truth of her words as I recalled the sorrows and challenges through the years. Grace was much more than asshole prevention. She was quietly working in the back while Grief served front-of-house.

Damn it. There’s that word again. House. And it reminds me of my question. Double dammit. Now my nose is all stuffed and the ugly cry face is on full display.

Where is home after divorce?

Grief and Grace held their peace. (They are most fluent in the language of silence.)

Then they spoke, their tenderness so acute as to bring a fresh cascade of tears.

We are your home. And you are ours. And holding it all together is Love. The ache in your heart isn’t for brick and mortar. Or about memories or dreams.

We have been with you from the time you drew your first breath, they spoke at the same time.

We have cried with you, Grief said. And we have held you, Grace added. Even when you didn’t know it, she added.

It is a longing for the ineffable. It is the existential ache for belonging.

But it’s still so hard, I tell them.

They nod in reply, resorting to their native Silent tongue.

Grace. Forgiveness. Love. Compassion.

These are the walls in the house that Love builds.

Home is not a physical place; it is merely a foreshadow of greater things to come.

Like a blanket, they tucked their silent words around me.

Grace. I place this single word in a prominent place.

“Sorry I don’t have a sign for you,” I say to Grief, “but seriously, give me a break. It’s not like I need another reminder of your presence.”

I think I heard Grief chuckle. (Just a little.) Fair enough, she says.

Okay, you two, I see we’re going to be roommates. I hope neither of you snore and fer-cryin’-out-loud, I’m not your mother… clean up your own dishes.

And with that, I come back to my question.

Where is home after divorce?

I pause. Perhaps this isn’t the right question. It’s a “what” question, not a “where” question because home isn’t a place.

Home is anywhere there is Love. It’s not bound by time or objects. Or even relationships.

I sensed Grace and Grief nodding. They may have even felt a little relief that I was finally getting it. At least in part.

But for right now, that was enough.

I was home.

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