Measureable Time, and More~

My dearest, my most beloved husband.

Chuck. Sarge. D.  My heart, my heartbeat, the oxygen in my blood, my very breath…

You were many names to me over the years.  You were many things to me, as I was to you. You were everything to me, as I was to you.

Life was daily living for us both, of course. We had our jobs, our individual friends and interests, and we had our friends in common and interests in common.

But beyond and above and alongside of, and with, we had each other.

You were my life.

What is my life without you? Without my breath? Without my heartbeat?

That madness of the souls that is Love.  That Love we shared that was a single soul inhabiting two bodies…

What to do with all of that now that you’re dead and we are forever separated?

The calendar says that you’ve been dead for 1,735 days.  I have to look on my app to see the exact days but my mind tracks the years.  Four years and nine months.

My heart? My soul? They tell me that you’ve been dead forever.  As the heart measures is the true measurement.  You were dead forever the moment you took your last breath and you will always be dead forever, even as human time apportions out minutes and hours and days and weeks and months and years.

The fractured splinters of my heart shimmer as dust in the wake of who we were together, in the aftershock of your death, in the vague remembrances of who I was with you and because of you and your Love.

I try. And try. And try again. I swear to god I do. I get up every damn fucking day of this life without you and I keep my chin level as I push and muck through and absorb and am at one with and allow and let go and hold on and welcome Love and let Love in and put it out there again.

What will it take to make this life without you worth it?

I’m brave. I’m determined. I look around me and see beauty. I do everything I can. I fucking swear I do. I have to, so that our Love is honored. So that I live a life that honors yours. I live my life because you can’t live yours.

And the splintered, slivered bits of dust that are my heart after your death…they shine in the light of day and glow in the dark of night.

The stars in the inky dark of every galaxy, glittering in skies around the world, shining over my head here in the desert…they are you, I think.  You, shimmering down on me. Maybe. But they are also the particles of my heart, no longer claiming space in my chest. Those far away beacons, too distant to touch, are the dust of my heart, scattered in the unreachable points of the Universe.

My heart cries out to you, my beloved.

I will love you into forever and beyond measureable time~

 

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Idle Thoughts Upon the Exit of 2017~

I’m so fucking relieved to say goodbye to 2017.
Our daughter told me that 2017 was as hard for her, harder in some ways, than the year right after her dad died.
It was harder for me, too, not for any one reason in particular, really. Maybe because our entire world seems on edge. Also, because my husband is dead.  Almost forgot that.
I’ve always told our kids that, no matter the state of the world, life has always managed to continue on, and even improve in some ways. I can’t say that as easily any longer. Life feels very threatening in every way this past year.
When I spoke to our oldest son about this, he agreed and said well, we might not have to even think about any of this anymore in the new year because North Korea might bomb us and the world will end anyways.
Why do I find that strangely comforting?
Does anyone else in the widowhood feel the same, or a similar, lack of enthusiasm for life?
I’m off the road for a few months, staying with my daughter. So much shit to get done.
Getting an income is crucial. Finances for me, like so many of us, are precarious since Chuck died.
Lots of my sentences end with that phrase, don’t they? Since Chuck died…
I hate Christmas. I know…how bah, humbug of me, but there you go. I wasn’t big on it when Chuck was alive…neither was he…but I’m practically Jehovah Witness about it now. I’m good with others celebrating it, of course, and I’ll join in with our kids with it, but I’m so freaking glad when it’s over. It takes energy I really don’t have, to get through it.
I genuinely believe that my Love life is a thing of the past. Love, sex, feeling cherished…all that. I’ll be alone until I die. Of course, if I express that thought aloud to people, they immediately warn me not to think that way or I really will be alone forever.  I don’t believe that for a second. As a single parent, after my divorce, I was firmly convinced I’d be alone for the rest of my life; what man would take on a woman with 3 kids? And then I met Chuck.                                                                                                                                       The thing is, I’m 60 in a few months, I feel as old as Methuselah, and I think I’ve had my Love story for my life. And I don’t know that we get more than one. And even if I do meet someone, I will absolutely compare him to Chuck…duh. Honestly, the more I see the so called men out in the world, how sloppy they are in appearance, how they carry themselves, how they speak…no thank you. Once again, I don’t believe that me believing this has any bearing on whether or not I’ll ever meet a decent, loving, confident, romantic, passionate, well-groomed man again. It happens or it doesn’t. I had it once, at least.
Do you ever want to respond to those who offer pithy comments to you about how you’re widowing, what you’re doing, yadda, yadda, yadda, with…whatever! Like a teenager. Whatevs, bitches.
I’m tired. Tired and lonely and empty. And isn’t that frickin’ pathetic?
I also don’t care what Chuck would want for me. Of frickin’ course he’d want me to be happy, blah, blah, blah. That has no bearing on anything, because, oh, that’s right…he’s dead. He isn’t the one left behind to figure all of this out. So…yeah. Though I’ll be more than happy to argue it all out with him if he’d just come back to me.
My new year begins each year on April 21, the anniversary of Chuck’s death. Who knew that I could control time, right? And yet, I’ve changed when my new year begins! Not on the calendar date 2018, but months later. I am all powerful! It just shows that the concept of time is just that…a concept agreed upon by thousands of people that, on the stroke of midnight on Dec 31, the year changes.  Nope, not for me. April 21, world…that’s my new year.
Random thoughts, indeed, as 2017 becomes 2018~

Shattered Glass and Dust Motes~

This shattered glass strewn around my feet, under my feet,
Glass that was once my leaping joyous joyful heart,
Shattered as I shared a last breath with my beloved.
Turned into a meat slicer roosting in my chest,
Where my heart once beat in rhythm with his.
His. Now forever stilled.
And mine?
Still beating. Somehow, and mysteriously.
My heart that once beat with his, now shattered glass into glass dust strewn at my feet…
Tiny luminous particles of dust motes dancing in the air
Kicked up by my feet that still walk on this earth
Unbelievably but absolutely.
Uncertain yet determined feet that crunch loudly through the shattered glass powder under my feet,
Striding into this shattered glass dust life of his absence.
Glimmering glass dust motes swirling into the air…
Shimmery dust glass reflecting light back to me around me.
Shimmer and glimmer and beauty and pain and missing and Love…
Beating heart to shattered heart to glittering dust that, tenaciously and insistently,
Rises around me,
And illuminates my way~

Widow Speak~

There really is no explaining it
In words that either convey or make sense to anyone
WIDOW
The depths of the word change daily and minute by minute
Depending on the day or the minute
In the beginning, it means devastation conflagration incineration annihilation
Each of those feeling remain or don’t,
Depending on the day or the minute
It’s going to bed alone and leaving the TV or radio on low so that the hum of voices distracts you as you wake through the night and if you don’t have the distraction your mind hums with memories and the grief that no more memories will ever be made.
Grasping his pillow close and arranging your body sometimes unconsciously to the side you slept when you slept with him so that he could curl his body around you his arm curving under you his other arm draping over you his hand curled around your breast.
It’s waking each morning and wishing that you could have that unsuspecting moment that you’re waking to your old life like you hear people speak about but your body and mind are instantly aware that he’s still dead and this is another morning and you’re exhausted because your mind has been going all night long even when you slept but really didn’t sleep.
And you make the decision to get up anyways because you can’t just lay abed endlessly, right?
Go through a morning routine getting ready shower don’t cry or yes, do cry try to push away the thoughts that I just can’t do this again but you do it again anyways because what other choice is there?
Breakfast even though you really aren’t hungry but what does hunger have to do with eating its habit more than anything or eat because you aren’t hungry but you have to do something and the clock says breakfast time and you eat but you don’t taste because food doesn’t matter to you anymore.
It’s going through your day whatever your day used to mean but now doesn’t except that distractions help sometimes but not really because there underneath everything is your new pulsebeat of dead dead dead he’s gone gone gone.
Try to get home early if you’re out because there’s just something about that time of the early evening that makes missing him more powerful than all the powerful moments of the earlier part of the day.  Once you get home wherever home is now home was when I was with him wander around the kitchen the bedroom the house turn the TV on for noise eat food out of the fridge because who cares eat junk.
Go to bed because you need the day to end or don’t go to bed because you can’t bear being alone in bed so sleep on the couch somehow the back of the couch against your back helps you feel more secure.
One season follows another and the days drift and bend and each season carries its’ own cuts and bruises of remembrance and oh he would love the colors of the flowers the trees the snow the ocean that gust of wind feel that feeling in the air and he isn’t here and my soul can’t bear this beauty and I’m not ignoring the beauty but the beauty hurts because I’m seeing it feeling it being it on my own and that cuts into me again like a chain saw.
We’re supposed to be grateful we had what we had and I am and we’re complimented on being so strong and I am but also exhausted from being strong encouraged to remember and I do but what does that have to do with anything I wonder and told that look you have your kids and your grandkids and your life and other people who love you and I do and I know that but what the fuck does that have to do with anything and how on god’s green earth does any of that change anything or make up for anything most especially the fact that for god’s sake he’s dead?
What do you say when there are no words in our language to fully and really and completely tell you that I say what I need to say and do what I need to do and I’m whatever I need to be to meet this fucking real life challenge but none of it means a damn thing and I’m not pretending anything to anyone but life does fucking go on and I have to support myself and shop and do all the daily tasks that constitute living but if you really really really want to know the truth with no qualifications and no prevarications…
My heart is broken and I’m not really strong and I hate living without him and life is unbearable and I’ve run out of words and I have no energy for this and I’m really not okay but I have to be okay so I try to be okay but my soul inside this body that shows up every day even as I’m doing and talking and going through each day is just missing him as he is missing from me and it hurts and there isn’t one damn thing that doesn’t remind me of him including the very act of breathing.  And all the milestones and holidays and anniversaries and birthdays amid the everydays make me miss him even more and I want nothing more than to be held by him feel his arms around me his lips on mine feel safe again feel secure again dance with him sleep with him have wild sex with him wake with him share nothing and everything important with him live again knowing how special I am to someone in this life just have him back please please please…
Be his wife his lover again.
Not his widow.

Ghost Dancing Into the Forever of You~

I will sing you to me.
As the days and moments and years pass by,
I will sing you to me.
As I gaze up at the mighty Universe each night,
From wherever my pink trailer happens to park,
I will sing you to me.
And as my heart wanders this land,
Seeking you, not finding you
But wishing desperately to connect with you and to you,
Somewhere, anywhere, everywhere,
I will sing you to me.
The words of Love our hearts exchanged
As we lived our years and our Love story,
I will sing you to me.
Where are you, my dearest Love?
On this night when the veil lifts between me and you…
Where are you?
As my hand reaches through the veil,
As my heart bleeds for you
And I lightly touch your picture your compass your wallet your moustache comb
Seeking to feel your presence again,
I will sing you to me.
As our music drifts lightly into the night air and my feet move slowly in remembered steps and my hands lift to just the right height, where the breadth of your shoulders wait for my touch,
And I ghost dance with you under these stars in this Universe in the world you left, where I am now, without you, my dearest Love,
Through the years and the moments and the days that stretch into Forever…
Into the Forever, my dearest Love, where you exist and I don’t,
My body will move with you and, yes,
I will sing you to me, always.
Forever sing you to me into the Forever of Time…

What I Know for Certain~

But don’t you want to be happy? Don’t you owe it to your kids to remember you as happy? Life is supposed to be happy. Maybe you’re depressed. Don’t you want to be happy?
If you’re a widow/er, then you’ve heard the same questions and comments. I know you have. Or, if you’re public about your grief, as I am, you hear it from the general public. Less frequently, possibly, as the years pass. But you hear it. Such comments were more prominent somewhere in the second half of my 3rd year. Apparently, if one is still grieving in the 3rd year, bells of doubt start ringing in the minds of those around you, whispering words like depression complicated grief not moving on not getting on with it medications therapy etc…
I’m embarrassed to admit that, upon hearing these comments (and let’s be honest, it’s thinly veiled criticism because it comes across exactly as it sounds: a judgement, as if I’m doing something wrong), I initially and inevitably ended up defending myself, and trying to explain myself, even as I knew I had no reason to defend myself. But those words made me feel defensive and attacked. So, I defended.
No longer. No. Longer.
Guess what? I’m perfectly content with my legacy. If I were to die right now, this fucking minute, I’d have zero regrets. None. Nada. Zero.
And I owe my kids nothing, because they already have all the Love in the world from me.
I know exactly how my kids will remember me and I know what my kids will remember about me. Whether I die today, or tomorrow or years from now.
Our mom was THE most kickass mom ever. She and pop had a Love story for the ages. They sold everything and traveled the country together and remember when we’d call them up we’d ask them where are you now? She nursed him with so much Love through his first cancer and they kept on traveling and when the cancer came back, she did it all again, and bigger. She ensured that all of us had one on one time with him in hospice and she honored and supported us through our own grief, even as she grieved. She bought a trailer after he died and painted it and her car pink and she dressed in pink and she drove all over the entire fucking country, honoring him and their Love and connecting with people everywhere. She was a connector. She inspired people. She was colorful and crazy and she was the Love Warrior and a Fucking Warrior Goddess and she did all that while she was grieving because she loved pop so much and her life felt empty without him and she fucking did it all anyways. She left an example to all of us and to her grandkids about determination and grit and Love. She cried and she laughed and none of it meant anything and all of it meant everything and she lived when she didn’t want to live and she talked to us honestly about the impact of his death on her and she loved hard because Love was all that was left amid the ashes of her life when pop died. She was unapologetic about her grief and her Love and she lived in spite of it and with it. And we are proud of who she was and what she was because she was real and being real was all that mattered. She was a Fucking Warrior Goddess.
No. I have no qualms about the memories I’ll leave behind for my kids, or for anyone else who might remember me.
My epitaph will read Here lies a woman who lived the duality of Love and Grief, who made everything around her shimmer and sparkle with Love, with a shattered heart, and she did it all in pink. She was a Fucking Warrior Goddess.

3 Dots at the End…

Of course you’ll always miss your husband…..
It’s the but that you can read into those little dots at the end of that sentence that contain the crux of what the person is really saying.
….don’t hang onto the grief….
….it’s your decision to be happy or not….
…..if you’re still struggling with grief, maybe you should go on medications….
Add to this whatever you wish.
And what I want to say to those who put those periods at the end of that sentence is…..
Don’t you know that, for me, this is what missing my husband looks like?
Do you know what skin hunger feels like…
Do you know what it feels like to have your world ripped out from underneath you, from around you, from over you…
Do you know what I mean when I say that there is not one damn thing in my life, or life around me, that is the same as it was and that, all by itself, is overwhelming…
How can I explain in any way that is understandable what it is like physically to feel my energy yawning out of my body, into the air, and know that it’s simply lingering there because there is nobody to receive it…
Do you know how confusing it is to be told by so many, professionals and otherwise, that grief is as individual as a fingerprint and there is no timeline….and then feel the judgement that, well, of course  there isn’t one but it’s been this long this long this long and you should be finding joy and happiness again….
Do you get that I shared a lifetime of love and marriage with my husband, with shared practical responsibilities, as is normal, and there is a steep learning curve as I strive, as quickly as possible, to know what one half of our marriage knew and now that he’s gone, all of what he knew is gone and I’m doing this at a time when grief fogs my memory…
How do I find the words that express the depth of the sorrow that is in my heart that my beloved husband is dead and my world is empty without him…not because I’m depressed or hanging on in an unhealthy way or anything like that but just, simply, sorrowful and heart heavy, and it’s normal that I feel this way…
What words will help you understand that when my beloved husband died, it wasn’t a simple unweaving and unraveling of a life lived with me but a ripping apart and shredding and now I must weave his death into whatever new life I must I am creating and that  it can, that it might, that I expect it to, take a lifetime and that’s okay too…
And all that needs be said in response is….tell me about your beloved husband….tell me a story of him and your love….
And that will always, truly and honestly, be enough and it will feed my hurting soul….