2003: a monumental year in my life. It was the year Lindsay died. It was the year I married Philip Morrow. It was the year I wept my tear ducts dry, the drainage of a reservoir of mood, the precursor of the droubt that parched me.
April, a month known to exude pastel and fragrant pansies, wreaked havoc over my youthful energy with the ringing of a phone and the delivery of the somber news that my childhood friend did perish. Complications from a respiratory infection. Tragic. The funeral occurred on a sunny spring day, the juxtaposition of life and death offending my grieving nerves. Wailing ensued. The memory replays itself in shades of gray. It was an ending; there I bade farewell.
After two months of denial then grief, I prepared myself for the day of stark contrast. On June 28th of the same year, I unified myself in holy matrimony to the young, the loyal, Philip Morrow, the fountain ensured to replenish my desert. Where once was wailing now gave birth to laughter. The mind once clouded in gray was at once infused in color. Unlike the definite end I knew in April, I embarked upon a beautiful journey, a beginning, in June.
It seems to me surreal for one young soul to traverse such a steep climb from the cragged depths of despair to the pinnacle of blessing in two short months. Yet the opposing moments occurred and they exist within me, guide posts on the journey upon which I now proceed.
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