Momentous Sunrise

Dear John,

 

If you were here you'd have the house closed. But you're not, so - in spite of 81 on the thermostat - the windows are open, the cat and I are listening to the birds, and the whole house smells like lilacs. This is why God made ceiling fans.

 

Sunrise .  .  .

Something momentous has happened to me and I'm still digesting it. I realized a couple of hours ago that I was sitting here taking great joy in being alive. And so I had to talk to you early and tell you, because I thought I'd never feel this way again. I certainly don't love you any less - if anything, I love you more every day. But my heart is finally realizing that you're as close to me as my head has always said you are. And so my heart is happy.

 

Once again, I've surprised myself, but probably not you. You knew all along that this was coming, didn't you? This grieving process hasn't been linear so far, and I don't expect that to change. I will have days that I will cry and be miserable. But now I see that I will also have days of joy, and that is good. That is what you want for me, I know. It's not that I didn't want it; I just had no idea that it was a possibility.

 

So thank you - for your prayers, your presence, and all the times you gave me permission to be happy after you were gone. Maybe the sun will rise again for me.

 

Love you with all my heart,

Joan.