This Time Last Year

     February.  I've been using it as a kind of "marker" for about a year now.  February, twelve months ago, was when things got so hard for Bob, and for me, that I finally put out a call for more help.  First, to our next door friend, Donna, and then to Bob's sister Barb who came as soon as she could get a flight and stayed with us a full month.  And then I wrote about it in this blog, and my youngest sister Ginny rallied my siblings and friends. The next thing I knew, Bob and I had almost nonstop live-in help through the middle of May.
     Now it's February again, and I've been overtaken by "this time last year" thoughts and memories.  In those memories Bob was still here.  He still laughed with us, ate with us, was glad to get out for walks with us.  He still went shopping with us and enjoyed ice cream for dessert every night. He could still play with and enjoy the grand kids. In those memories he was still here, but this February he is not.  The memories are filled with so many ways we were blessed with love and kindness, and with support that we needed more than we'd realized.  At the same time, those memories are stark reminders of how different my life is now without Bob, and how much I miss him.
     In the early days after Bob died, I read in some book about grief that "it gets worse before it gets better."  The past few days, I've been wondering if the "worse" is upon me.  I had two weeks of respite being with family in Florida.  In that time, I was blessedly distracted by many contrasts to my usual days at home.  There was a long weekend of partying with family as we celebrated a nephew's wedding.  That was followed by visiting my Bournique and Risen sisters and some of their families.  We walked through lush botanical gardens, enjoyed sand and sun and ocean, and the antics of younger family members.  I loved it all and am grateful for the "infusion" of family, as one sister put it.
     Yet since I've been home, my heart has felt again the depth of my loss.  It crept up on me first driving home from Santa Fe, as I traveled through the beautiful canyon where Bob always delighted in spotting the rafters cruising on the Rio Grande River.  It burst upon me as I turned onto the road to our home, and continued to break over me in waves as I unloaded the car, put away groceries, and unpacked. I couldn't have named what triggered these feelings, there was nothing specific, other than what Hope once said when I commented I didn't know why I was feeling the way I did: "Grandpa died."  Simply put, that is the reason for so much of my emotion:  Bob died.
     Since my return from Florida, it feels as if I had two weeks off from those feelings being at the forefront of my awareness and so they've had a chance to accumulate.  The accumulation spilled over briefly in the midst of yoga class today, as it had on Saturday when I was having coffee with a friend.  It washed over me on Sunday when I spent some time re-reading this blog and was stunned by how much I'd forgotten of Bob's struggles, and my own.  Later that day, more than once, it spilled out during a catch-up phone conversation with another good friend.
     I'm not complaining about these experiences, only being aware of them, observing them, maybe learning from them.  I think I am also somewhat surprised by them.  This grief is unlike any other I have known.  It is all-encompassing and ever-present, even when I am not aware of it.  I've lost my "Other Half" which very literally means I've lost a big part of myself.  Just as one has to adapt after losing a limb, I am adapting to living without Bob, the part of me I will never have again, except in precious memories.

Touching Exchanges

     Today Hope and David were here from after school through dinner.  As Hope sat down to eat, she wondered aloud to David, "I wonder where she sits when we aren't here."  I told her that I sit right where she was at the moment.  Then she asked me, "What do you think about?"  Before I could answer, she went on.  "I know what you think about.  You think about Grandpa."  I assured her that yes, I do think about him a lot while I'm eating.  I told her I also think about her, about her brothers, and her mom.
     About 30 minutes later, Mom arrived from work to take the kids home.  As Hope was putting on her shoes, she asked me, "What happens here?"  For a moment I was stumped.  I asked if she were wondering what I do in the evening after supper.  When she responded that that was her question, I told her I would clean up the kitchen, maybe read, maybe watch TV or write an email.  Then I asked her the same question:  What happens at your house when you get home?  "Oh, watch TV, take baths, do homework, get ready for bed."
     What touched me about these exchanges was Hope's sensitivity to me, her concern for me.  At six years old, she seems to have a capacity for reflection and caring that I hope will only continue to grow as she does.

Hesitant Start

     It wasn't rational, and I knew it.  Yet, as the new year approached, I felt reluctant to let the old one go.  Leaving 2017 felt somehow like leaving Bob behind--I was walking into a year Bob would never see, never be part of.  It hasn't taken long for me to realize that although Bob won't see 2018, he is very much a part of it because he is such a part of me.  The poet W. S. Merwin wrote: 
                               
                                 Your absence has gone through me
                                 like thread through a needle.
                                 Everything I do
                                 is stitched with its color.

I am discovering that even in his absence, Bob's love is a rich presence.  It is stitched into so many memories, so many perspectives, even into many ordinary moments and remembered "private jokes." We have moved into this new year together, and I couldn't be more relieved nor more grateful.

December 27

6 months ago today.

Our last hello and our last goodbye.

The end of us,

the beginning of just me.

The Chair

The Chair

You should be sitting in that chair,

your cup of coffee in hand,

smiling at the antics of the birds,
announcing the coming of the neighbors' cat.

You should be,

but you're not.

I should be sitting here with you,

commenting on the day ahead,

filling you in with our plans.

I should be,

but I can't.

Now my coffee grows cold

while I get lost 

somewhere between those birds

scrambling for seed

and my heart

facing the future

without you.

You should be sitting in that chair.

Everything would be better.

So much better.

Single Woman Humor or Where's Bob When I Need Him?

     I am reminded often that living alone has its dilemmas, as well as advantages.  This morning, I experienced one of those dilemmas.  As I was getting dressed, the clasp on my bracelet--the one made with Bob's wedding ring--found a stray stitch on my underwear, in the back, and refused to let go.  Effectively, my right arm was, more-or-less, handcuffed to my backside.  Eventually, I managed to undo the clasp and my right arm's confinement, freeing myself and the bracelet again--but not before having to wonder who I could call to come release me from the grasp of my underwear!!

The Ornament

The Ornament

“First Christmas Together”
the wooden, red-tasseled circle reminds
from its perch on the tree.
“1985.”
My fingers savor the smooth grain
and my heart is transported in memory.
Our “engagement ring”
we called the ornament
with a woven heart at its center.
That December,
Rome had “dispensed” me 
from my vows,
gifting both of us with freedom
to proclaim our love.
That Christmas season,
you dispatched a scrawny pine
from its place on our property.
You were laughing as you dragged it indoors,
your eyes twinkling, your smile broad.
You transformed that pine sapling
when you strung it with lights
and added the blue glass ornaments.
We sat in the descending darkness
holding hands, 
enjoying the lights, the tree,
our first Christmas together--
dreaming of our future.

Thirty-two years later,
my first Christmas without you, 
our “engagement ring”
stirs this sweet memory 
of the beginning of “Us.”

I hold the memory close
and in it, you are here
again.

                      December 12, 2017