​Ys in the Road

Living in the suburbs, most of the roads I travel are arranged in a grid pattern, mostly 4-way or T-intersections. Sometimes they are at odd angles, but still usually on a grid.

On a short trek from my home to a rural destination where I am volunteering for several months, I encounter two Y-intersections. Two. How odd to find two such junctures on this short drive. Considering that I rarely see this type of intersection on my usual driving habits, there are a lot Ys on this road!

At first, I am wary, not familiar with the proper Y-intersection etiquette – who is supposed to stop, or who has the right of way. I survey the area for other traffic signs indicating how I and fellow travelers (should I encounter any) should proceed through this oddity. I also look for signs with street names to make sure I end up on the right road. In these moments of hesitation, I find myself grateful for the un-busyness of this country road, allowing me the freedom to acquaint myself with this new (to me) traffic pattern, and to figure out how to navigate safely through it.

To complicate things, I find that I am not only unacquainted with Y-intersections, but this city girl is unprepared to drive on a dirt road – my windows are down so I can enjoy the country air. I quickly realize that my wheels are kicking up billowy clouds of dust, and that dust was getting all in my hair and on my face! Before I can close the widows, my eyes begin to water and my nose to run. I start coughing, too; it’s little hard to breathe in that moment.

Eventually I reach my destination. I dry my eyes, blow my nose and take a deep breath. For a little while, I will be with people. Their presence is comforting; I know what is expected of me.

All too soon, I find myself back on those narrow, dusty country roads, heading home.

Windows closed.

After traveling the same path for several weeks, the Y signs aren’t quite as intrusive. The road is familiar; the signs part of the scenery. Yet all along the way, they keep asking, “Why?”

Perhaps grief is like that narrow dirt road. I’m not always on it, and when I am, it is only for a time. It is a solitary path; I find few others there as I traverse its lonely passage. It's an unfamiliar place with its own set of unfamiliar rules. I must learn to slow down and figure out how to safely navigate my grief, how to move through the Whys.

When the wave of grief passes, I wash my face, dry my eyes and blow my nose. And I remember to breath.

The Whys are still there, still unanswered, but a now a familiar part of the landscape of my life.

Like the signs on those dusty country roads.