I’m not counting the weeks anymore. The moment, the date are etched in my mind forever.
It’s been almost 7 months since I lost you, since your children, grandchildren and friends lost you. It’s been almost 7 months since I heard you say “I love you too”
The ache isn’t less its just more familiar.
Grief is an interesting friend. I used to call her “she/her” because I felt like she was an extension of me, but I think its “he/him” he is an extension of you.
Grief you are always there, always ready to listen and let me cry without judgement. Grief understands my pain and does not try to fix me. If I ignore you, you wait and arrive whenever there is an opening. You aren’t mad or pushy. You are honest and committed to honour the pain of my loss. All you ask for in return is my honesty and commitment to you. My grief is you, John.
I get afraid sometimes that I’m going to forget something about us. That you will grow farther away from me as I get more familiar with you being gone. That I will forget the real relationship and start believing in something I wished had been or only the “good parts” of our life together. You know what, even the hard stuff was the good part. I know I didn’t think the hard, messy parts were good until now, but they were. They were part of the good because we always made it through. We always learnt something. We grew together, closer somehow. We never forgot the why of us or the love we carry. We fought, we cried, we even gave up sometimes (mostly me) but always found our way home. Our relationship was not perfect, but it was.
When you lay dying, the hardest part of our journey together, we grew closer and our love grew bigger and deeper. In the midst of all of the pain this was the beautiful.
I listen to videos to hear your voice and imagine you saying I love you to me in them. Even when you are being silly saying something to one of our grandchildren in a snapchat video. I wish I had captured more moments, but you can’t do that without interrupting the realness of a moment. You were the one who always wanted to be in the moment, to feel it and remember it. So, now I listen to the sound of your voice and remember you saying “I love you, Kath” in my mind. I love the sound of you saying “Kath” it was soothing and so beautiful. I love your voice. I love your laugh. I love your insight and wisdom. I miss all of you.
I am in this strange place where I am used to you not being here. I don’t like it but I know and understand the feeling of being alone. Alone, as in without you. I never minded being alone until now because I was never really was alone, you were always coming home to me. This aloneness is so loud, final and real. This alone is forever.
What is forever? How did I mean forever when you were here with me? I guess my version of forever before January 24th 2023 was forever here on earth. You and me until we both died together, not one before the other. My forever was unrealistic and romantic. I think that is why in the beginning you would tell me “Nothing is forever” and I would cry and say “but, say we are.” You were always the logical one. But you too ended up believing we were forever because you believe in eternity.
Right now, my forever here on earth is grieving you and being alone without you. I still believe we are forever; we have just been given a moment in time pause. A moment in time for me to learn what I still need to learn and for you to get accustomed to your new home in eternity.
Our forever will continue in eternity.
Until you reach for me when my time comes and bring me home with you, I will miss you forever and love you into eternity. Until then my love, I will continue your legacy of love and commitment to serving others. I will pass on stories of you to our children and grandchildren. Your legacy lives on my love in each story, each memory and each persons life you touched with yours.
Love,
Kath
