Soon I will have been your Widow for three years.
Should I be good at widowing now? Should this feel “normal” to me now?
No one gave me a manual when you died.
So, I am going by feel.
I fumble forward on instinct.
I hate your death date. November 15th, 2016 – you took your last breath and I fought to catch mine.
You died on a Tuesday. For over a year, I hated Tuesdays. Then, after a while, I stopped raging against Tuesday; but, I continued to cringe on the 15th of every month. Now, nearly three years later, the 15th of the month doesn’t sting the way it used to. I guess this is progress.
It has been almost three years since I last spoke to you. Three years since I have heard your voice. Three years since I kissed your lips. Three years since I held your hand. Three years since I felt your physical body next to mine. Three long years. And, as I am typing this, I see three roses from your funeral. These red roses are frozen in a frame, casually displayed in my living room. How ironic that these particular roses are on display in my “living” room. *Sigh…
What is a girl to do with any of this?
I am not entirely sure what one is supposed to do when the man they love dies. I suppose one cries. Then, cries some more. For me, many nights, I lay on the hard wooden floor sobbing while I wondered if I would die from sadness. I spent countless hours staring out into the beyond. I’ve looked up at the stars and asked Mike where he is. I’ve held my hands out in front of me, hoping he is there and somehow my fingers are touching him.
I’ve stood alone outside in the moonlight and whispered “now what?” And, I’ve never hear a response. I have begged God to bring him back, knowing all along that this is not possible. Hundreds of times, I’ve blown kisses to the moon and softly said goodnight to Mike. For almost three years, I have dragged my heartbroken Soul to my empty bed where I lay awake aching for his physical presence. Many nights, I’ve woken from a broken sleep and reached over to his side of the bed. Now, there is nothing where he once lay. Three years later this still startles me because I always hope against hope that I will feel him.
I have cried on my way to work. Tears have streamed from my eyes as I walk the aisles of the grocery store. On Friday nights, I have sat in parking lots crying. I have stood in the shower wondering if I can wash the grief from me. But, my grief is more than skin deep. My grief exists inside my Soul. It can not be washed away. That is not how this works.
I have stood cooking dinner lost in my thoughts. I have wondered if I will ever just feel “normal” again. I have diligently gone through the motions of life without him. I have lived without him, even when I thought I couldn’t.
For three years, I have continuously replayed our conversations in my mind. I know the words by heart. I close my eyes and slipped back into a place in time when Mike existed. I stay there in my reverie because it is more comfortable than my reality. This is widowhood. This is what one does when their person dies.
Mike, I have lived another year without you and I feel like you are farther from me and I am no further ahead.