A year ago, my son said something that to me sounded like “Don’t live your life based on death.” He was referring to my habit of marking my calendar with birth dates, anniversary dates, and death dates.
So if you don’t remember death dates, or don’t want to think about death, or whatever, you may not want to read any further and I’ll be talking to you again next week.
~~~
Tomorrow it will have been two years …
I just found this on a Facebook post.
Epitaph (modified)
When
I die
Give away what’s left of me
To children.
If
you need to cry,
Cry for those
Walking the street beside you.
When you need me,
Put your arms
Around someone
And give them
What you need to give to me.
Look
for me
In the people I’ve known
Or loved.
Let me live on in your eyes
And not just your mind.
You
can love me most
By letting
Hands touch hands,
And letting bodies touch bodies.
Love
doesn’t die,
People do.
So, when all that’s left of me
Is love,
Give me away.
~~~
I recently learned the full Moon this month is called the Mourning Moon by some. She was full just a week ago.
“The November full Moon is all about final preparations. It’s a time to bundle up … a time to surround ourselves with things that will comfort and sustain us during the dark that has arrived at our doorstep.”
~~~
A week ago I began reading a book recommended by my librarian. We are both widows.
The book is “The Little Paris Bookshop” by Nina George and is, in part, about the changes which occur following the loss of that important person. It is full of wonderful words … put together in amazing ways to comfort or delight. It is the second book I’ve read this year about a book seller. They were both beautifully written.
~~~
Last saturday I was listening to “The Hours” by Philip Glass. It is music not understood by everyone. But as I listened, I knew it was the “us” I had lived with for over seventy years … an “us” not understood by everyone.
George was the constant, ever present, repeating, undercurrent to my life from the time I was twenty. No matter where I went, or how I changed, or how I moved, or which path I took, or how I behaved, or … or … or … or … that constant, supporting undercurrent was there.
Now there are times I am dysrhythmic, even atonal, without a guiding foundation.
If you didn’t understand how that “us” could have survived … or what I just wrote … listen to “The Hours” without expectations or judgments.
~~~
There have been two early morning thoughts with me lately, both dealing with regret. It has been said we regret only what we did not do. That is not correct.
One regret is not about the doing, but the need to do.
During the last two or three days, as his body was shutting down, I saw the despair and anger George was feeling at being caught in a cage from which escape was a dream. I wept. But I told him his work was done and it was alright for him to go. I still weep in spite of knowing it was the correct thing to do … to let him go. It was like when we were younger and he was traveling a lot back and forth between home and DC. I would say, as we had been told his paternal grandmother said at partings … “Do not stand upon the order of your going, but go and go at once.” I knew he had to go. I hated it. I still hate it.
The other is a real regret over something not done.
The day before he died, George indicated he wanted to go somewhere. It took both Mark and I to move him. We asked if he wanted to go to the restroom meaning, but not explicitly saying, “the toilet”. He nodded “yes”. As we were moving him, he grabbed the post at the bottom of the stairs with his left hand (the only part of his body, other than his head, which he still controlled) and held tight. I now believe he wanted to go upstairs to our bed to “rest”. I should have understood. I should have taken him upstairs, undressed him, put him in bed and wrapped our coverlet around him, gotten undressed myself (we always slept starkers), and gotten in with him.
That which I should have done I did not do … it is a regret I live with.
~~~
For those of you still with me … I apologize for the bumpy ride. A young friend, also a widow, described it as “that bone-breaking loneliness.” Another speaks of the “pain” time between the loss and adjustment.
Having unloaded all this, I may not have to do it (overtly) again. Thank you for seeing me through it.
On the fourth page of the book I referenced earlier the author wrote …
There had been love in this room. Now there’s only me.”
So … ‘til next week …