Touch
As I write this, I’ve got 20 minutes left of the workday. But work is over for the day. Instead, I am lost in thoughts of him, sensual thoughts. Memories of kisses and embraces and touches and closeness to a body I adored of a man I adored. He was so strong, so muscular, so sexy, so handsome to my eyes, though he swore he couldn’t see what I was talking about in his mirror. I could never look my fill of him, though I stared at him constantly.
The memories are heady, although the remembered fires of passion are somewhat doused by the tears in my eyes. The body I adored is ashes, scattered to the winds. The man I adored is somewhere beyond my reach, and well beyond my longing touch. I know we hold each other in our souls, as always. But I ache to hold him in my arms, and feel his arms around me, too.
I am 35 years old. And realistically, although by no means assuredly, I can probably estimate that I’ll have another 40 years on this planet. 40 years. And last night, I asked him why he had to go when he did. I will miss him the rest of my life. Why he did he have to leave when the rest of my life was longer than the life I’ve already lived? What was his rush?
Like all the other whys, these ones weren’t answered either. I don’t ask very often anymore because of that, but sometimes it wells up in me and I have to ask again, knowing the answer will not come. It doesn’t stop me. I know I will ask again.
The thing about grief is that you do get through it, the worst of it, anyway. But no matter how much perspective you gain, no matter how much acceptance you manage to find your way to, no matter how many signs you receive that let you know you are still loved, heard, and still not alone, they do not make up for the fact that you will never fall asleep with your arm around him again, hearts beating in time.
And that’s the part that leaves you in tears on a Tuesday afternoon.