Invasion

I drove down the road to the Horsfall Dunes, and the weather was perfectly Pacific Northwest coastal; not too hot or cold; sunny, breezy, spots of clouds, the scent of the sea in the air. It was an ideal day to meet someone and enjoy some time together.

You are already passing through dunes as you're on this road, with trees jutting up oddly here and there from the sand and mysterious hideaways in the scrub and shrub that grow wildly about. There are places with enough water pooled to be a pond or small lake, and I wondered if they were saline, but kept driving on the imperfect road, nearly wavy from the shifting sands beneath it. In my seven-plus years living here, I had thought of the road as one for industrial commerce, with large semis bound for the plants processing timber into plywood, and then driving back out again. The truth was that it headed straight through what most might think of as low key dune country, yet if you had half an eye open, the landscape changed as much as it stayed the same.

Then it happened. I realized I was surrounded in Cytisus scoparius, or Scotch Broom, as it is commonly known. Green, rapidly growing branches that bloom brightly in the temperate months. It is an invasive species in Oregon, where I live. It is lovely with its bright yellow flowers until it has choked out other foliage and taken over mountains and valleys. It had been the first plant we had learned about after moving to the state...

A wave of grief crashed through me, making me feel like I couldn't breathe, and I pulled over sharply and put my truck in park.

I fought the tears, opening my mouth because it is supposed to prevent your eyes from crying.

I held on tight to the steering wheel, and the rumble of my truck, and sobbed, still attempting to keep my mouth open, the sounds from inside me barking out over the truck's rumble. It was like an argument, I thought, and laughed in my sobs that I would perceive my vehicle as having a dissenting opinion.

I knew right then it would never end, the reminders every day of my late husband, Ray, and our heaven within this world, which can be hell, as well we all know. Fourteen months he has been gone. Fourteen months I have been a widow, and if ever there was a BAD WORD, it is that one. I abhor trying to move on, and the stark emptiness in everything, as I wish to feel joy as much as I am afraid of false positives. The last fourteen months have been full of painful comparisons I try not to make, finding person after person incapable of being a true friend. Ray and I had stayed away from people mostly, at his behest, and now I understand he only wanted to keep our little bit of heaven.

I tried to compose myself, then pulled back onto the road. Would there ever be someone in my life that cared about the botanical names of plants, or had quips and comebacks to make me laugh throughout the day, or loved me too much too argue, ever, or would joyfully eat my cooking, waltz me around the room, love me tenderly, and do all those countless, wonderful things with a full heart that filled MY heart?

No.

No, there will never be anyone like him, ever.

I drove resolutely, late for my date on this beautiful afternoon, looking at the invasive Cytisus scoparius that had invaded me.