Over the Threshold

Over the Threshold


So I did it. Signed the contracts as stoically as the President, but with less fanfare, and likely not as much importance.

It felt freeing.

It was sad.

I came home, cried, when early tears formed into snapshots of him as I attempted to nap it off.  Pics of him, lying there in the hospital bed, in the corner of the bedroom, by the large window, and the door.

The caretakers roll him away through this extra exit that was never used by us. Too many tight corners to get through the other way, they use the unused door like an emergency exit.

The death door.

I know it is not the door’s fault. It was likely installed for leisurely activities, maybe even morning coffee on the deck, but makes no sense since I have another door in the kitchen that exits the same deck, and is nearer to the coffee pot and condiments. Or, some other parental escapade–like a way of escaping, but not too far from responsibility sleeping in bedrooms on the other side of the home.

What is the point?

It sits locked. Dusty. Really it is not like I think of it at all, outside the occasional checking to make sure it is still locked. One day I came home and realized it wasn’t, and wondered how long I was open to stranger danger.

I see the movie reel play it’s exit scene through that exit. Overwhelmed at the sight, they tried to get me to leave, but I refused. Holding on, for as long as I could, until I would no longer see him in this way again.

His soul gone, his body still intact.

Panic sets in. Am I making the right decision?

Are there right and wrongs, or maybe just good, versus stuck?

Shame slipped in at the signing of the contracts. The residual feeling of self-loathing appeared.



I shut her out as best as I could with a replay of a familiar mantra to still her insidious unsettling:

You are beautiful.
You are accepted.
You are loved.

My mantra, Heaven-sent one day long ago, reduced her to a simple irritation, similar to a mosquito bite.

There is another door.


I want to stand in this threshold.
Soak in the thankfulness of a new door, a fresh start.

A window replaces the door on the blueprint of the new home.
I picture sunshine entering in, soaking my skin with warmth, as new curtains move with the breeze.

It is like a window to my future soul.

“Knock, knock, knocking on Heaven’s door,” plays uninterrupted in my mind. No, not really a Guns and Roses kind of girl, but seems to point me to another door, one I anticipate Bill standing on the other side.

Another door to open on another day.

I think a large hinderance to new thresholds to walk over, is the fact I still feel married to him here. But, I am not.

Yes, I can play house, and pretend nothing has changed. But, I wonder if doing this will result in a tie that binds, keeping me bound, by refusing to identify with the plain truth:   The marriage contract was broken by his departure.

My identity severed as a result, to widow.

Maybe it is time to embrace my new identity, instead of loathe her status.

How often am I tied to contracts that no longer apply? Bound, when I can be free. Not from pain necessarily, but released to embrace new spaces.


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