Nineteen months.
I have been at sixes and sevens all day today. I have wandered the house, wandered the yard, wandered about my mind. I have stared at the computer screen for hours. I have haunted the Internet, checked my email a thousand times. I have waited for the phone to ring–and dreaded hearing the phone ring.
Nineteen months.
Babies have been born and learned to walk and talk. Couples have fallen in and out of love. Students have graduated and moved on–twice. Books have been written and published and sold and remaindered. Elections have come, gone and are coming again. Businesses have opened and closed and filed for bankruptcy. Others have opened and grown and flourished.
Nineteen months.
I have planted and harvested and planted again. I have retired from one work and begun another. I have cried and laughed and mourned and cried and laughed and mourned. I have grown and grown old and grown young and grown old again. My hair has gone white and my step has grown weak.
Nineteen months.
I have
planned and cleaned and planned and painted and planned and built and planned and created. And nothing is done. And a dozen different things are started. But nothing is finished.
Nineteen months.
I have never been more productive. I have never been more creative. I have never been more. And I have never felt less productive, less creative or anything less.
Nineteen months.
We hiked through fields and over mountains. Now I walk the empty streets to her headstone.
Nineteen months.
What does it mean to love someone too much? What does it mean when they die? What does it mean to climb the too familiar stair of a too familiar house? What is the sound of empty?
Nineteen months.
People tell me I am strong. People tell me I am brave. People tell me she would be proud. People tell me I am making a difference.
Nineteen months.
It is forever. It is the blink of an eye–less than the blink of an eye. But it is really forever.
Nineteen months.
Sleep eludes me. Joy eludes me. Success eludes me. Every victory reminds me of the loss. Every failure scars my soul. No scar matches her death.
Nineteen months.
“I always saw us growing old together. I saw us retired, traveling, reading, writing, gardening. I saw the time together. I saw our slow decline to death, together–or not very far apart.”
Nineteen months.
“I forgive you.”
Nineteen months.
I forgive you.
Harry, I think you sometimes fall into the trap of believing you should or could “move past it” or “get on with life”, or that these kinds of days should be less frequent (or cease to exist). Though I have not experienced the same kind of loss (or probably ever even has the same kind of love!), I have had some personal acquaintance with grief and loss. It’s hard to be strong, but almost harder to be weak. We feel like after some period of time, we should no longer have those days anymore. I learned a while back to forget that plan (though I don’t always remember that lesson when I need to!). There will ALWAYS be tough days. There will ALWAYS be harder moments – some on predictable dates, and some out of the blue at the most random time, in the most random place, when a memory comes back. All I can say is that as much as those days are awful, they are also natural. If you accept their presence, they become (at least in my mind) easier to handle. No less upsetting, and no less painful, and no less vivid. But less of the feeling of defeat in the healing process. They are not setbacks or obstacles, but more like natural ridges in the road. Learn to navigate them and the ride is much smoother… Fighting them or hoping they aren’t going to be there just leaves you ill prepared…
I hope any of that made sense, and that the sixes and sevens subside soon. In the meantime, grab a blanket, a good book, and a favorite treat, and ride out that road until tomorrow, when the course should be smoother.
Thinking of you,
~Sarah
Thank you Sarah. You’re right. The problem is that in the grip of the tsunami, we forget.