Standing atop the dunes of the Indiana lake shore, I stand alone like a beast of the wild, surveying the emptiness before me. The cold bite of winter is long gone, but her fading teeth marks are still felt upon my fiery cheeks. The waves crash with the rhythm of war drums, drowning out the caws of gulls that fight on the lakes edge over a meal of rotted meat. With the keen eye of a hawk, I watch the day wave good bye against the backdrop of the Chicago skyline across the lake. The setting sun brings me no magic, no majestic picture painted just for me by the hand of god, and no lilac and lace mixed with hues of gold and crimson—–no, on this day the sun sinks like a rock onto my heart; matching the block of cement deep within my chest.
The wind rages against me, and sand tears at my flesh, trying to steal a piece of my soul. My eyes swell with tears of pain, or maybe it is just the agony of a lovesick heart trying to break free from its cage—I know not which. In either case, I weep.
The seasons of my heart is not marked by a calendar, nor marked by time—my moods shift with the tides of a woman’s fury; a woman caught in the thralls of a white squall of estrogen and menopause as she goes through her own season of change. Her fury erupts like that of Mt. Saint Helen’s without warning, and just as quickly calms like the still waters of a reflection pool. I stare into the abyss of her brown eyes and the abyss stares back, mocking my concern, and I learn nothing of what I have done. I fear the worst—-the loss of my hopes, my dreams, and my wife.
Staring into the shadow of the coming night, I know not what to do. I am lost, confused, and look for answers in the inky waters of Lake Michigan. On bended knees cradled by the sand, I cry out to God, “Help me.”
No sooner do the words pass my lips, and a crack appears in the sky, letting in a glimmer of goodbye light, which twirls jubilantly about me like translucent butterflies. In the dim shadows, I observe my surroundings that are set aglow from a prayer answered. In the distant, a ruffed grouse calls out to me through the junipers and pines, and a blue heron, rarely seen, glides overhead.
I walk to the edge of the woods, and the earth opens her doors to me. The flowers dappled in vivid violets, hot magenta, and wild strawberry, treat my eyes to an orgy of beauty, which leaves me in awe at the depth of nature’s splendor. The trees, with their soft Caribbean greens, pinks, and reds are set majestic against a backdrop of white blossoms, shad bush, and viburnums. And scattered about like a drapery are vines, which soften the rigid outlines and add their blossoms to the marvelous display.
I walk among the splendid wonder before me, gathering waxy bells of wintergreen, lilacs, daises, and buttercups—taking in the sweet smell of the invigorating bouquet. Spring has come in full bloom, and I had not taken notice. But God answered my prayer, I knew what to do—I must wait for my wife’s season to change. And as I wait, I will dress for each occasion draped in love and understanding. With bouquet in hand, I head home.