Sunday, June 15, 2014

My Lifetime Ago

Dear John,
 
I'm back home. Jethro is glad to have his kitties back, they're glad to have both of us, and we all took a nap together this afternoon. It seems that there's no place like home.
 
This week has been hard. Your mother's death and service weren't as hard as starting to clear things out of her house. I associate that house so much with her, of course, but I also associate it with you. Closing the house is another layer of losing you. I didn't expect that, but I suppose that it makes sense. There are so many memories of you there.
 
1956 - my lifetime ago
And today is Father's Day. Please give Daddy a great big hug for me. Tell him thank you for everything - for spending every Saturday with me when I was little, for teaching me how to fish (and bait my own hook, and clean the fish, and handle the boat) and ride a bike, and drive, and  in general how to be a grown-up. He taught me what a good man looks like, so that when I met you, I knew what I was seeing. Tell him that I love him so much, and I miss him every day.
 
And with this great convergence of dates - the anniversary of your death, your mother's burial, your father's birthday, and Father's Day - I'm very aware of all the people that I've lost. It seems that we spend the first half of our lives gaining - parents and siblings and family, friends, a husband, our own children, careers, a house, financial security - then we spend the second half of our lives losing them all. We lose our grandparents and parents, aunts and uncles, then friends, then husbands, and sometimes even our children. As we age we lose our careers and financial security, our homes, our cars, our independence. My live is past its autumnal equinox and I'm well into the time of loss. Pray for me that I will handle it with grace. And maybe a sense of humor, though today that is failing me. Today I'm just aware of how all-absorbing is my desire to come join you. If you have any pull, please exercise it on my behalf!
 
Still watching the autumn sky for stagecoaches,
Your wife.


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