Reaching Out
Welcome to my blog. Have you noticed that sometimes the most difficult lessons we ever learn are the ones we remember the most?
This post is dedicated to a lady who taught me something very important when I was just sixteen years old.
The Power of Words
As a little girl I would often perch on John’s wall while he tended his plants. He was a big man; as warm as the sun which crept over his house, to touch on the rows of nodding flowers he looked after so lovingly.
He would tease me, asking gentle questions about school, and magically finding laughter in every subject. I would wistfully imagine what life would be like if he was my father. I often remember him leaning on his spade, and coaxing a robin on to his hand with a little square of cheese. It seems I wasn’t the only one drawn to his garden.
As a teenager I would join him in easy companionship, chatting to him whilst he pruned and weeded.
“I’m going to college to be a secretary,”
He had frowned, and pushed back the cap he had taken to wearing out of his eyes.
“I never imagined you as a secretary. Is that what you really want to do?”
He was the only person in my life to ask me that question.
I rarely saw his wife. Veronica, a dark eyed, beautiful woman, would occasionally venture out with a shy smile and then retreat quickly back to her kitchen. But even as a teenager, I sensed that they adored each other.
I clearly remember the day I heard that John had died. It was a chance remark; tossed away by people who hardly knew him. He had lost his life to cancer a month before, at the age of 42.
The pain, for me, was intense. When I heard the news I ran to his house and stood outside for a while. It was raining, and the rain coursed down the gutters and splashed into the water butt at the side of the house. I glanced at John’s pride and joy; his rows of flowers; now bowing their little heads sadly under the weight of the rain. I’m still not sure why I stood outside his house for so long.
It was a whole month before I saw Veronica. She was walking on the opposite side of the road carrying a wicker basket.
I stopped. Had she seen me? What on earth could I say? As well as I’d known her husband, I hadn’t really known her. Perhaps I could steal away quietly. For a sixteen year old, this was an overwhelming dilemma.
And then she looked up. So reluctantly, I crossed the road with a thumping heart; my eyes avoiding hers in the awkwardness of the moment.
“How are you?
She was wearing leather gloves. I remember the feel of the leather as she placed a hand in mine.
“Have you time to come in. Please?”
That afternoon, we held hands across her kitchen table. She told me of the profound pain she felt, when people crossed the street to avoid her. “People don’t know what to say. They never mention him because they don’t want to hurt me,” she said “I long to talk of him, but it’s as though he never existed.”
So we talked of John. We talked of how they had met at a school dance when she was fifteen. We both cried. We cried for a man we both loved in our very different ways.
That afternoon, Veronica taught me something I’ve never forgotten. She taught me not to be frightened to reach out. She taught me the power of compassion. She taught me that if someone means something to you, you should always tell them.
Because one day, it just might be too late.
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Jan Jack
Comedian, Bespoke Poet and Speaker
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This is such an important message. Grief is such a difficult thing to deal with. It is so easy for those on the periphery of a life to forget that their friend or acquaintance is still grieving, long after the event that caused their grief. If you know someone who has lost someone, no matter what the circumstances, reach out and let them know they can still talk about it and cry about it.
This made me weep, the first sentiment about wondering how things would be if he were her father. The age of the man, same age as me. So sad the ‘good ones’ seem to get taken so soon. I always make the effort to give a hug or a smile. Even on blogs, I’ll let someone know I have read, I do not always have the words for someone grieving, but I do not want them to think they are alone. I think sometimes just knowing people feel helps.
An important lesson for one so young but one unfortunately many don’t learn. I believe we never lose our loved ones that they live on in our memory. My Mother died in 1987 and she still gets mentioned on a regular basis
I have come across this sentiment expressed in countless tales, recollections and reminiscences – here’s the thing: I never cease to be moved.
I’m put in mind of the old Post Office advert ‘I saw this and I thought of you’.
The lesson I’ve learned runs thus: if you feel something for someone, say it. Providence might bless me with an abundance of [healthy] years, but the sole cause for discomfiture at the thought of growing old is that more people I have liked and loved would cease to be of this earth – but at least I’d have let them know – and I remember them with fondness, rather than regret of not having shared my feelings with them.
Hello, I saw this and I thought of you – I thought of you and felt a warm glow.
This post has me in tears. Recently a neighbour lost her husband, we are only on nodding terms or pass a few words if we met taking the dogs out. I only knew he died because I saw the funeral cars he was only 50. A few weeks later my husband and I saw her out with her dog and I did cross the street and give her my condolences but it took all my courage and was very hard to do but after reading this I’m so glad I did.
Thank you so much everyone for taking the time to read my post and to comment. I seem to have touched such a common nerve. I’m so very glad I learned this lesson so early on in life.
About two years after John died, I was walking down the road and saw a man I knew, who had lost his 20 year old son.
Anne, despite my previous experience I felt just as you did the other day. It still took all my courage to approach him – especially so because he’d lost a child. But I did, and I’m glad I did. If you don’t mention things like this a barrier goes up that’s very hard to bring down.
Thanks for sharing your experience. I’m so glad you crossed the road. It will have meant so much to her.
Thank you
Jan
Thanks Jan for visiting my blog and for your lovely comments it’s always nice to see someone new reading it.
Glad to read this blog! Keep it going!
Artclies like this just make me want to visit your website even more.
Super writing; keep it up.