Unbroken Connection

     The medical center where Bob died is on a main street in Taos; I drive by it numerous times a week.  The window of "his" room overlooks the street, as does the patio where we sometimes sat when the grand kids came to visit.  Some days as I drive by, I am only vaguely aware of the countless memories we made there in two-and-a-half weeks.  Last night as I passed, the memories washed over me in waves, vivid and strong.  I could almost feel Bob's presence with me--as real as if he were sitting, as usual, in the passenger seat beside me.  The sensation didn't last long--about as long as it took to pass the building.  That same sense comes over me in the morning when I sit down with my coffee, facing "Bob's chair" where he always sat with me as we began our day.  I know he isn't sitting in that chair, but I feel his presence as intensely as if he were.  I feel it, too, when I sit at "Bob's place" at our dining table, or when I fluff up "Bob's pillow" as I make the bed. The feeling comes again each time I put on, or glance down at, the bracelet made of "Bob's wedding ring."

 

There is unexpected, welcome comfort in these connections--reminders that the bond we shared and the life we lived together were real, and continue unbroken--although in a new and unfamiliar guise.