There’s a guy on Twitter who lost his wife and is writing his grief across the space. Yesterday, I wanted to write to him about Teddy, how he walked on hundreds of hikes with me, how he waited patiently when I took pictures of things, how he barked at just one person, a scary person, on the trail, how he smiled at everyone else, and how I hadn’t been able to make myself walk alone since he died. I miss being outside, but I don’t know how to walk alone. I still talk to my Teddy.
It seemed too close to the heart of grief to write that to a Twitter soul crying out across the space. I cried as I wrote it. But then, I deleted it. I tried again to write about my Grandma, the one who loved me best when I was a child. I tried to write about how I talk to her as I use her plates and imagine her surprise at the taste of mango salsa that I put there with habanero spiking through the soft mango flavor. I still talk to my Grandma.
Some mornings, especially on the weekends, Mike sleeps in. I want to watch him sleep, but that would wake him up. I want him to have his sleep. He needs it. We all need it. But I want so badly to watch him breathe, to see the pink glow across his cheek, to kiss that pink glow. I don’t want to lose him in a moment when I’m not paying attention. I whisper to him across the house as he sleeps. I tell him how much I love him, how I want him to get good rest, how I’ll make him tea when he wakes up.
That is the heart of grief, so close it sits with me while I wait for him to wake up.
I hear people say that it’s a miracle they got to their next anniversary. For me, it’s a miracle that Mike is with me every morning.
I have watched two people die so far in my life, two people I loved. I know grief. I know how much it hurts to lose someone and the pain of those days after they’re gone. It’s excruciating, the crush of loss a real thing that tightens across your chest. I’ve lost more people than that, people I still talk to in certain circumstances, Mike’s mom when I make her boys a particularly good meal, my dad when I use his old screwdriver, Teddy when I find one of his hairs in my pocket, and Grandma when I put food on one of her plates. Sometimes I cry when I’m talking to them. Sometimes the hurt wells up and fills the room.
I want to tell the Twitter man who lost his wife that what he’s feeling is love, bright and shining love.
Thank you for listening, jules