There’s a divot in my back garden, directly outside my eldest son’s bedroom window. It’s still his bedroom, even though he lives away at university. It’s still a divot in the yard, even though it’s the sun-drenched resting place of my dog’s bones, there for a month now. Both gone, in different ways but nowhere near forgotten. Both missed, too. I’m holding armfuls of nothing, waiting for when I see them next.
I’m holding armfuls of nothing for lots of things. I’m holding space, not for the prayers I’ve hurled into heaven, but for the answers which I’m no longer furiously waiting for. I’m waiting, but captioned “Meanwhile…” – like someone waltzing by themselves on an empty train station platform, their own pulse and music enough for right now, finding contentment and magic in the sway. Waiting in that half second universe between leaping off the deck and the water finally hugging you close. Waiting… not furiously, but deeply. Knowing truly, and repeatedly, that the answers will come when they do, maybe like hayfever, roaring through my head, or as cool and sweet as the other side of the pillow.
I’m holding dumbells and potential, knowing I can do and be difficult. I’m holding up the entire horizon, holding hope heavy mansions-full that my sons will choose to come back to the gospel. Holding the end of a long thrumming leash that says that there’ll be dogs in heaven. I’m holding my breath, holding my tongue, holding on to the surety that this too will pass, that I can stand here in this moment, that I can hold out a hand, that I can stand in this space right where I am, and hold nothing but the hope that the answers will come, one day, and dance.