It’s a tiny living room in our small house. For weeks after I returned home, these were my safe world.  In truth, Steve was more worried about my world being dangerous than I was, but I was happy to be home so went along with the worrying.

I slept on the couch, not too far off the ground so easy to get into and out of — a must for those earliest shaky days.  Most of my time I was alone.  I listened to music.  I watched old films.  I often slept.  Mostly, though, I looked up, trying to let all that happened sink in and somehow begin to make sense.  Walls, ceilings, and bookshelves were lively and colorful.  I took comfort in the idea that a room symbolizes the person living within it, for — and I am only now writing this — I was going through depression.  No, I didn’t sob.  I felt great pain, though.  No, I didn’t become lethargic because I would get up and move if only to bob up and down to the music.  I did feel the pain, however, when I least expected it. Head pains were expected, and I had medicine for those, but I never expected the pains that came with realizing one part of my life wouldn’t come to pass.  Maybe I wasn’t in depression, but I was in mourning.  What I had hoped for would never happen.  What I had prepared, sacrificed for, and loved gently and fiercely was over.  I would cry without even realizing it, without making a sound, without any extra movement.  The tears would simply come as I looked up at the colors and stories of my living room.