I am without him.
I say this with no self-pity. More of a sense of disbelief. It is surreal, unreal, not real.
Nights are for sleep but they are also when the mind opens up as the body relaxes into exhaustion. This isn’t necessarily a negative thing. It’s when words swirl about in my body and I must waken fully to put them to paper or type them out so they don’t congeal in my soul and darken into toxins.
Words. Phrases. Images.
The urn containing what is left of Handsome Husband’s physical self rests next to me and his folded flag next to that as I lay down at night in this pink trailer. Some might flinch from doing this. Am I sleeping with the dead?
I will never feel his fingers skimming my body in love again. Feel his kisses linger on my eyes, on the tip of my nose, on my lips that ache to speak his name. I will never again see his eyes light with love and passion and teasing as his gaze touches mine. His strong hand will never again enfold mine as we walk, or rest on the small of my back, or reach out to open a door for me, smiling as I thank him.
The nevers. We’re not, in this world of wemustalwaysbepositive, supposed to concentrate on what we don’t have, only what we do have. We must be grateful. For something. Anything.
Quite simply, I’m alive because I haven’t died. No, I’m not depressed. I am grieving. Grieving in a way that might very well set the creators of the DSM 5 into high alert because we cannot allow this human experience to continue past a certified timeline. We must be concerned! We must medicate!
This man, my husband, was in my life and a part of my life, for 24 intimate years. He filled my life with love and passion and knowledge and touch and friendship, he was my go-to person, he made me feel safe, he cherished me and made me feel cherished and loved and safe, and he is gone forever. It doesn’t comfort me to have only the memories of that, but I must find some comfort in that because it’s what is left.
These thoughts and words and images. Oh my, do they swirl within me as I lie next to what remains and I remind myself of the love that is bigger than this grief. His love for me, and mine for him, was bigger than anything that the world can toss my way. Love is bigger than death. I know this. I must know this.
But, honestly, in the night hours especially, when I am without the warmth of his body next to me, when the morning light peeks under the shade, when my soul says okay here it is, another day without him…it takes everything I have in me to just do it.