His ashes were scattered yesterday, at what I understand was a very beautiful place on a rainy day. "Everyone" was there. Everyone but me. Again. He is not the ashes. He is not the dust. He is what he always was: a beautiful, loving soul who has not left my thoughts or my heart since the day we met.
I know I can’t take it personally. They don’t know me; they don’t know me well enough to dislike me. It is the idea of me that is problematic for them, for whatever their various reasons are. It’s hard not to take it personally, though, for I AM the person in question. This is all very personal to me. I loved him. I love him. I will always love him, for an eternity of eternities. They don’t see that, or don’t want to see that, or see it perfectly and want to pretend they don’t.
I sat in the breeze, which was coming from the west, as I’d hoped, and played songs for him, singing into the wind, songs I learned just for him. Songs I wrote for him.
There is nothing I can do about their exclusion, and it says more about them than me. But I still think it’s a damned shame.