Grief demands a villain. A target. Something or someone to pour itself into, to rail against, to destroy. This I know. So does Harold’s wife, Louisa.
I found a kindred spirit in Louisa, a somewhat eccentric, aging, bereaved woman who finds solace in conversing with her chickens. Her heart is empty and her rage is full. Relatable. Loss does that to you.
Louisa finds her target; it is Larry, the drunk driver who killed her beloved grandson, Cody, which lead to despair so great in her husband, Harold, that he took his own life. A domino effect of pain and sorrow that has left only Louisa standing, alone.
This will not do, of course, so Louisa and her ol’ hens hatch a plan.
Alas, as Robert Browning pointed out many years ago, “The best laid schemes o' mice an' men / Gang aft a-gley.” Which is another way of saying, things don’t often work out as you expect them to.
In Louisa’s case, there was a couple of young bucks, one, a wounded creature of the forest, and a another of the human realm, that wandered into her path and distracted her from her mission. As the spring sun warmed the earth, so too did Louisa’s heart feel a creeping warmth and a something else that had been missing for far too long; the human connection.
She had lost that which could never be replaced, but she was learning that she too could FIND.
