Three Years

I count things. I am not sure if this makes my life harder or has no effect. Regardless, I count. I feel like it happened yesterday and, at the same time, it feels like John has been gone for a very long time. It is time for him to come home.

The third anniversary of John’s death is today.

So much has changed and yet, so much is the same. I sleep in the same bed where he slept with me. Only now, I sleep alone. I am aware each night, as I pull down the sheets and snuggle myself under the covers, that John is no longer with me. I no longer cry. I remember what it felt like when John pulled me close and said, “Why are you so far away from me?” I can still feel the hair on his arms and his breath on my neck. I fall into the night’s adventures thinking of John.

I do not cry.

I sit in our garden relishing the warmth of the sun as I have always done. I still take time to visit each flower garden he planted and to smell the roses. I check out the size of the rosemary bush and the health of hanging pots. Only now, I speak of it all with admiration to my memory of John while the real John floats in whichever world he has chosen.

I play golf, but with strangers. I listen to him trying to help me. “Erica, keep your head down. Move a tiny bit closer to the ball.” Thankfully, my partners can’t hear him. I keep playing even though much of my fun is diminished. I long for the times I could share my brilliant hits and complain of my lousy putting. How could it happen that when I finally broke 100 all I could hear was silence around me?

His life on this earth has stopped. Mine continues.

I see older couples walking down the street and jealousy creeps into me. I swat it away, thinking, You had your good life. Be grateful. I think about what John is missing - what he would have loved. I remind myself that John would not appreciate my pity. He was grateful for what he had and accepting of his death.

Each day is a constant lesson on how to live a good life. I remind myself each day that I have a life that is worthy. I work on finding ways to smile, to laugh, to give something to someone else, to be joyful and to learn. I remind myself, because it does not come with ease. I am being forced into living with intention. I am being pushed into realizing that I cause my own pain by wishing for something that cannot be. John cannot come home.

I evaluate my days. Is this a good day? Am I on the right path? Sometimes loneliness wraps around me. Emptiness. Be aware. Recognize it is temporary although significant and expected. I enjoyed companionship with John for over half my life and now I have lost a part of me. I hear me say, “I take you with me. I am not alone.”

My brain is busy figuring this all out. It is focused on advising me how to use each day. Do something nice for yourself today. Do something creative today. Do something for a friend today. Do the dull, boring tasks that no one wants to do. Do nothing. Do not let sadness overwhelm me.

Life used to be simple. Even when I was raising my son and going to work, I knew what was expected of me. Get Danny to school, go to work, make dinner, and everything that happens in a family. Routine stuff. When I finally retired, both John and I had free time. We each had our way of filling our days with what we found fulfilling. We could be spontaneous or abide by our plan for the day, but we had each other and knew how to live.

It is no longer simple for me. I feel the need to figure out what each day will hold. I am not required to make dinner. My refrigerator can remain empty. Laundry can pile up if I don’t care. Do I wish to entertain friends or attend a ballet? Shall I take the day to write, or check up on my CASA friend? The days loom long before me. John is not here to say, “Let’s take a walk” or “Come sit with me in the garden” or “Let’s spend a few days in Tahoe.”

It is work. Three years have shown me I can do this, but I must do it on my own without sharing my time. My life’s partner has left me swinging in the wind. But, I shall keep my promise to him that I will keep on living a good life.

I take time from my day to talk to John - about nothing important but sometimes necessary. It connects me to our life and love we shared. Ah, I worry, Am I living in the past too much?

But my bond with John feeds me. It energizes my positive beliefs. Our bond cannot be broken. Our bond is intimate and strong, making me feel as though I wander between this world and ours.

On July 26, I shall light a candle of remembrance. It shall shine bright as a spiritual connection between John and all of us who love him. The flickering flame tells us John’s spirit is eternal.