I hate that we don't talk about her. I miss her. He misses her. We all miss you. "All" is a lot of people. Many, too many, touched by your spirit which is where now? Where have you gone? I used to believe -- believe in "the spirit remains", in "they live on through us", but really, I think it's all bullshit. I think it's something someone made up to make others feel better and not be afraid. By "others", I mean those who have yet to lose so suddenly or severely. Those that have been through it -- living with it -- well, they'll smile and nod and pretend those stupid sayings mean something but in truth, in the dark of night, when sleep is the elusive enemy and you can't find a clear thought to save your mind, then those stupid sayings are insulting.
You sit in my heart. You sit in my soul.
Some days it's fine, okay. But some days I think it's hard to breathe -- hard to think about a heaven or a G(g)od that would dare take you from us. It's hard to pray, bow down to someone who took ________ from you. And that's the awful truth. The one we get to live with. When it comes down to it, faith isn't for the fearless, for the lucky ones; they have plenty of it already, masquerading as perkiness. Faith exists for those desperately grasping at a semblance of normalcy. And finding out there might not be one.
I knew Barbara only for a short time -- a little over a year. Who am I kidding? I knew her for 15 months and 5 days (as if I didn't count).
Fifteen months. A life can change in 15 months. The world around you can spin backwards; the sun appear in the middle of the night; the stars linger tillnoon . Fifteen months and everything can change. Fifteen months and your life can fumble into something so unbelievably different from when you first knew it...
Yesterday, her son turned 30. Thirty years. I wonder if he's counting the years to come or counting the years to come without her. Something told me, over an Italian dinner last night, it's the latter. Something tells me nothing I buy, make, write, say, do, wish, think, hope for will make a difference. It's nice of me to try, I'm sure he thinks, but really, you can't undo World War III. And that puts me at somewhat of an awkward passing. It's like I'm falling short or something. Like no matter how hard I try, I will never be the perfect wife because he will never get to touch her again. Smell her hair. Hear a sweet Hello over the telephone in the middle of a busy work day. Feel the delicate embrace of a hand sun kissed in the warmSouth Florida sun. No matter what, I can't make my husband's fantasy come true. Fishnet stockings and push up bras just won't do on this one.
You sit in my heart. You sit in my soul.
Some days it's fine, okay. But some days I think it's hard to breathe -- hard to think about a heaven or a G(g)od that would dare take you from us. It's hard to pray, bow down to someone who took ________ from you. And that's the awful truth. The one we get to live with. When it comes down to it, faith isn't for the fearless, for the lucky ones; they have plenty of it already, masquerading as perkiness. Faith exists for those desperately grasping at a semblance of normalcy. And finding out there might not be one.
I knew Barbara only for a short time -- a little over a year. Who am I kidding? I knew her for 15 months and 5 days (as if I didn't count).
Fifteen months. A life can change in 15 months. The world around you can spin backwards; the sun appear in the middle of the night; the stars linger till
Yesterday, her son turned 30. Thirty years. I wonder if he's counting the years to come or counting the years to come without her. Something told me, over an Italian dinner last night, it's the latter. Something tells me nothing I buy, make, write, say, do, wish, think, hope for will make a difference. It's nice of me to try, I'm sure he thinks, but really, you can't undo World War III. And that puts me at somewhat of an awkward passing. It's like I'm falling short or something. Like no matter how hard I try, I will never be the perfect wife because he will never get to touch her again. Smell her hair. Hear a sweet Hello over the telephone in the middle of a busy work day. Feel the delicate embrace of a hand sun kissed in the warm
Of course it's not about me, but often I think it's about what I can do to help him. Mostly, I think nothing will help. It is what it is. Trite, but true. And then I fall apart when he's not looking, far away enough to let out a few short sobs and clean up nice before he comes home from work. Like someone once told me: you can both fall apart, just not at the same time. Words to live by. Unfortunately.
It's a shitty way of working things out, but the boy just doesn't want to go there. Whenever I bring her up there's this silly blank stare. I say silly because he desperately tries to pretend it's okay we're talking about it, all the while trying to hide this nervous smile that I don't even think he knows he's wearing. It's weird. And the conversation quickly turns to cheese, or something mundane like that.
"I miss your mother so much," I wanted to blurt out last night. This is often the case come holidays, birthdays, milestones, Mother's Day, grand children's birthdays, a really good movie, a funny book, a newly discovered picture circa 2001, a great pair of shoes, a fabulous sale, really good Mexican food, an amazing new TV show, an unbelievable trip, a pretty new nail polish, a whisper of possible baby making. But I don't. I hold back. Bite my tongue till there's a little blood. Because God forbid I'm the one who reminds him she's not here. As if he needed reminding, but still.
Where are you? What would you say to me now? How on earth (heaven?) would you deal with this? And then I remember: she did deal with this. Her mother passed when she was only a little older than Gregg is now. And I wonder how she slept at night knowing the same fate could -- and eventually would -- befall her children? Holding it all together with two young kids in her mid thirties. That's thirty something for you. And yet she did it. And did it beautifully. With grace and warmth. With joy and optimism. With love and a grateful heart. All things she passed down to her children -- and often those close to her. It just rubbed off on you, the woman was infectious.
And that's what puts me to sleep at the end of a long, long night. If she could do it, I can certainly try. Maybe we have a chance. Maybe she visits his dreams and they hold hands until the sun comes up.
Sometimes I feel her sitting next to me. Quiet times like these bring her near. I wonder if Gregg feels her too or if he even allows himself to feel. I think he does. Looking into his eyes, sometimes I think she's never left us at all. And I think, maybe Faith has a name.
It's a shitty way of working things out, but the boy just doesn't want to go there. Whenever I bring her up there's this silly blank stare. I say silly because he desperately tries to pretend it's okay we're talking about it, all the while trying to hide this nervous smile that I don't even think he knows he's wearing. It's weird. And the conversation quickly turns to cheese, or something mundane like that.
"I miss your mother so much," I wanted to blurt out last night. This is often the case come holidays, birthdays, milestones, Mother's Day, grand children's birthdays, a really good movie, a funny book, a newly discovered picture circa 2001, a great pair of shoes, a fabulous sale, really good Mexican food, an amazing new TV show, an unbelievable trip, a pretty new nail polish, a whisper of possible baby making. But I don't. I hold back. Bite my tongue till there's a little blood. Because God forbid I'm the one who reminds him she's not here. As if he needed reminding, but still.
Where are you? What would you say to me now? How on earth (heaven?) would you deal with this? And then I remember: she did deal with this. Her mother passed when she was only a little older than Gregg is now. And I wonder how she slept at night knowing the same fate could -- and eventually would -- befall her children? Holding it all together with two young kids in her mid thirties. That's thirty something for you. And yet she did it. And did it beautifully. With grace and warmth. With joy and optimism. With love and a grateful heart. All things she passed down to her children -- and often those close to her. It just rubbed off on you, the woman was infectious.
And that's what puts me to sleep at the end of a long, long night. If she could do it, I can certainly try. Maybe we have a chance. Maybe she visits his dreams and they hold hands until the sun comes up.
Sometimes I feel her sitting next to me. Quiet times like these bring her near. I wonder if Gregg feels her too or if he even allows himself to feel. I think he does. Looking into his eyes, sometimes I think she's never left us at all. And I think, maybe Faith has a name.
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