There is a certain impulse to leave some concluding, what-I-have-learned, remarks in a post like this, but I’m also resisting it, as I don’t know what I would say.  Nothing has really concluded for me at this point other than my commitment to blogging my grief.  I still do not know where this journey will take me, but I am under no delusion that it is over.  I just keep going, and try to keep the faith that if I keep breathing, things will work out as they should.

Thank you to everyone who has read here, and a special thanks to those who have participated via comments and gifted me with wisdom, support, and help when I needed it.  I hope I have managed to pay back a little of that in kind.

It is my intention to leave this blog here indefinitely, so that others may find it when they need it.  It is the book I will never write, but I offer freely to those it might just help feel less alone some day.

Thanks again for traveling with me this while.  I wish us all peace and healing, wherever in our lives we need them. 

Love,

The Girl Left Behind

Image found on PostSecret

None of these things are very likely to happen, of course.  They are merely the symptoms of the persistent visceral fear that I have had since A died:  Is today the day that is our last day, without my even knowing it?  Is my saying goodbye to E today my last words to him, ever?  Will I look back on this seemingly ordinary day some day and mark time from it again as the day my whole life changed?

I was never like this before A died.  But his death, so sudden and so unexpected, made me realize that any day could be the day.  His death wasn’t very likely to happen either, and yet it did; I have no protection from that reality anymore.  And now I wonder if today is it, for me, for E, for my parents, for my friends.  I was so carefree once; I resent this knowing.  For some people, I have seen, it is an inspiration to live lives with greater fearlessness than they ever dared to before.  For me, it’s a burden I cannot seem to set down.  This bell cannot be unrung.

I was walking into work the other day, and it was a beautiful morning.  The birds were chirping.  The sun was warm on my shoulder.  I had a snazzy outfit on and was having a good hair day.  The hum of the traffic seemed cheery.  I was conscious of all of this conspiring to make for one happy Girl.  It should’ve.  There was a time when it would’ve.  And overall, I would have to say that I was taking it in and enjoying it.

But I was also aware of the heaviness of my heart.  Indeed, it was the contrast of everything else being so lovely that finally allowed me to pinpoint the weight I feel in my chest all the time.  It’s a physical sensation.  As good as things may be outside, it never goes away.  Or I should say, it has not.  Will it?

Can I will it?  

It doesn’t seem like I can.  I only seem to be able to work around it, as I feel it whether I’m thinking about him or not.

I have been thinking about him.  Less constantly than I used to, but many times during the day, and more again lately.  As I sat in the airport last night, waiting for E to arrive, I thought of all my arrivals at A’s airport, and the hugs and the kisses of welcome.  Airports are major triggers for me.

I’ve been thinking about how he forgot Valentine’s day that last year.  It had been a rough spring for him, work and mood-wise, and I have often wondered since if that was prologue.

I’ve been thinking that time passes so quickly, and I can’t believe he’ll be 3 years gone before I know it.  July will arrive at a gallop, I know, because I swear it was just Christmas.

I think about my friend Claire, who has said that she didn’t really start feeling positive and hopeful until 3 years had passed, and Candice who is finding more of that for herself these days, having passed 3 years, and I think maybe I just need more time to get there, but that I will get there.

But I don’t know what to expect of myself, what is reasonable to hope for, what, if anything, I might do to move things along.  And I carry this weight in my chest every day.  It barely slows me down now, but it is not imperceptible.  I am scarred and maimed in so many ways that no one but I can see.

This was my first good guitar; I bought it a week after I returned from my very first camp, having been dazzled by the array of beautiful guitars the other women had.  A lot of fine musicians and finer people have played that guitar, including A, and I always feel like guitars carry the energy of everyone who has ever played them.  When I found myself desperately, desolately, lacking in mementos after A died, I comforted myself with the fact that at least I had my guitars that he had played.  There were two of them; now, I only have one that he once held in his hands, though I daresay he liked the one I have better than the one I sold.  I will keep that one.

I was pensive during the process, but when I found out they’d make me an acceptable offer for mine, there really was never any question of backing out for sentimental reasons.  The one I traded in I can’t play; it made my left hand cramp up.  And A wouldn’t have been in favor of my keeping a guitar that hurt me.  Plus, I didn’t need another guitar; so my net guitar gain is zero, which is good.  

I haven’t had any seller’s remorse yet, just the occasional twinge of knowing one more thing has been lost, or let go, however freely.  I hope regret doesn’t find me.