That bracelet

A couple of you may remember the saga of A's bracelet, the one I made for him that he never took off; the one that was lost in the shuffle after he died; or maybe it wasn't lost at all, but the unwillingness of his family to find out where it was and get it for me made it is good as lost.  The second chapter of that was that I made an exact replica of that bracelet 3 different times, and it kept coming apart, and I wondered at the time if that was a sign that I wasn't supposed to wear that reminder every day for the rest of my life.

 

I put the bracelet in a safe place next to his picture and didn't really think about it for a long time, until recently.  I'd gotten the jewelry-making bug again last weekend, and was in the mood to make some anklets for the summer.  Once I had all my beads and tools out, though, I thought again about that bracelet.  I fished it out of the dish I'd put it in, washed the dust off of it, and brought it back to my desk and tried once again.

 

The funny thing is, as soon as it was finished and I put it on, I felt better, maybe not unlike those widows who have taken their wedding rings off for awhile, only to put them back on later.  I didn't wear it for long because it was long past bedtime, but I wore it all the next day, and felt the same.  That was unexpected, considering I've gone without wearing it for months...maybe years now; I don't even remember when I put it away.

 

As I was driving to work this morning, I was reflecting on how I've been feeling the last few days, which is kind of hard.  Cynical.  Shields up and defensive.  And I'm not really sure why, as I cannot pinpoint any specific attack coming at me.  And yet, it stands to reason that that bracelet would only make me feel better if I was somehow feeling worse, even if I didn't realize it.

 

Maybe it's simply the relief of having something lost returned, making me feel a bit more whole.  I don't know what it means; but nonetheless, I think that bracelet is going to get a lot of wear in coming days. 

Another joins the club

We got word yesterday that a coworker of ours had died of cancer.  She hadn't worked at the office for the last year, at least, once her treatment for cancer overwhelmed her ability to keep working, but while she did give her notice back then, it wasn't like she ever really quit.  It was that cancer effectively fired her; she had no choice.  She fought for 2 1/2 years, but at the end, she was ready to go home.

 

Home.  Now that I believe that there is more to life than this particular life we're living, I am sometimes envious of those, including my A, who have been released from this world and the worries and hardships thereof.  Sometimes I'm so tired, and while I try to make the most of my time here and appreciate those who travel this world with me, I think that I maybe wouldn't mind so much being done.  And in those times when I wonder, if we have a choice about when we leave this world, why A would choose to cross over instead of stay here with me and others who love him, that's usually what I work my way around to.  That life is tiring, and if you have any choice at all, and are given the vision to know how this universe works and that the rest of us will be along soon enough, I think it might be mighty tempting to go ahead.

Management forwarded a beautiful and loving note from her husband, now a new widower.  He was very philosophical about how he would need to take some time to process not only his grief in her fresh absence, but the emotions he hadn't really allowed himself in the last 2 1/2 years.  As I read it, I thought, "Mister, you don't even know what you're in for."  And I was sorry, for my own sake as much as his, that I do.  He must be 60-something; I was just 34 when it happened to me and while I knew the moment I found out A had died that it was going to be really bad, it was 100 times worse, in ways I could've never anticipated.

But then again, I wrote some philosophical posts in those early days, too, about how I was going write my way through the grief, about how one day I'd feel better.  Of course, I had no idea how bad I would feel, or for how long, but I suppose those things were true after all.  And in the shock of bereavement, maybe it's a blessing that the intellect is still able to offer us useful, coherent thoughts like these when the soul is screaming "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"  It can't hear anything beyond its own pain.

I don't know him, but I feel for him nonetheless.  And maybe he will have a better handle on this grieving business than I did; maybe they finished all their business in the time they had.  Maybe he's older and wiser than I, and can bring a different and greater perspective to his life that has changed so drastically in just a single day.  I pray that that's the case; because even if he has all that to start with, this is still going to be one literal hell of a ride.

Ashes and dust

Last night I was puttering in my inner sanctum at home (I just hate calling it an office), a task that was long overdue.  Once I finally made it to my desk, which still hasn't been fully excavated, I noticed that the three pictures I have of A on a picture shelf there had grown dusty.  I blew on them a little, but it was inadequate to the task, so I took a tissue to them.

On the one hand, I live in the desert.  Deserts are dusty, and so are the homes in them.  Reasonably, I shouldn't read into it any more than that. 

Nonetheless, it was symbolic, and poignantly so.  I was struck by the simple reality of dust on my love.  His face, a photo only, and yet him even so.  There is dust on my love.  While I do believe we've communicated since he died, in a fashion, and while I do believe our love is ongoing and strong, and while I do what little I can on my end to keep him current, the fact is that there has been no day-to-day interaction like we were used to having for 3 years, 10 months, and 5 days now.  I say it that way because every time I say "almost 4 years" I wince a little.  Next Tuesday is the 5th...no, wait, 6th (geez) anniversary of our first "meeting" on the internet.  And I have been carrying on by myself for 2/3 of that.

I'd like to state for the record that that sucks mightily.  And I only say that because I lack the words to express how truly and unabatedly shitty that bit of my reality is.

Mostly, now, when I think of him, or see his picture, I just think, "I love you, Sweetie.  I hope you're having a splendid time where you are.  I miss you a lot."  Because there's not much else to say.  If he's interested in my goings on, I'm sure he can tune in, and the times when I choose to tell him are more for me than they are for him.  He is with me, but he isn't.  The love is there, but the lover is completely out of reach.  And I feel it.  I feel that distance every day.

There is dust on my love, and every passing year adds another layer of it.

There is dust on my love, and I never wanted that to happen.  Never.

There is dust on my love.