The Chair & The Daisy

The last time you were here,  we sat on the patio and talked for hours.  It was one of those spring days where it is finally hot.  We'd survived a long, cold winter and longed for those days.  Finally, they had arrived.  My pale skin was burning at its reunion with the strong, warming sun.  You sat in the chair on the left, and I on the right. 

 

Now, 17 days after your death, I go to that chair.  I sit in it.  Somehow, it seems snug, as if it were custom made to fit me.  In it, I imagine that I feel you hugging on me.  It might sound crazy mon amie, but it lends me a fleeting moment of comfort. 

 

I look at the Gerbera daisy you brought me that day, and I hate that cheap little plant for outliving you.  I want to smash the pot on the stone patio, but I cannot bring myself to destroy the last tangible thing you gave me.  After all, it's beautiful.  It has died many deaths, appearing to be beyond resurrection, wilted, dry, limp.  But I tend to it and love on it, and it springs back to life again and again. 

 

I know you are with me.  I feel you near me at times.  I remember your words, and when I need new words, I intuitively know what they would be.  I know how you would comfort me through this.  I just want to hear your sweet voice saying the words.  I want to look into your lovely, loving, wise eyes and see for myself how much you care for my hurting heart. 

 

The emptiness and loss are massive.  The tears are a bottomless well.  I am carrying on, G.  I am.  I just wanted to carry on with you a bit longer before this separation. 

Pain Demands to be Felt

"That's the thing about pain.  It demands to be felt." 

from The Fault in Our Stars by John Green

Two days ago, I lost you, at least in the earthly part of my life.  And while I'm grateful for the incredible strength and comfort with which God has been supplying me...I grieve.  Deeply. 

 

You, so brave despite your fears.  So giving and nurturing, even as those who love you desperately wanted to nurture you.  In all of my life, I have never felt so helpless as I watched this dark and ugly thing called cancer take your life.  Still, your spirit was steadfast.  You remained your beautiful, amazing self throughout the entire journey of your earthly life.  I never could have imagined I could come to love you even more, but I did as I admired your courage, your selflessness, and your incredibly giving soul all while you bore the burden of your diagnosis and prognosis.

 

So often I find myself staring, absorbing neither sights nor sounds, only feeling this deep, heavy weight in my heart.  I eat, but feel weak.  I sleep, but I feel exhausted.  And then, in the most unexpected moments - a minor chord in a song, a glimpse of your handwriting, an image of you - my composure is lost and I unravel right where I am, melting into tears as my body shudders and sobs.

 

You would easily be the one I would call when feeling so bereft.  Just the sound of your soothing, lilting compassionate voice would quickly work its magic until I rapidly transitioned into a more rational state of mind.  From there, we would discuss whatever was troubling me at length, with you always, always, always offering a perspective that my analytic mind had somehow not yet considered.  Always, you would offer encouragement and support and love, saying "be nice to my friend Angie." 

 

Truly, you were an angel.  And I am exceedingly grateful for the chapter of my life I shared with you.  But selfishly, I want more of you.  There is a void, and it's deep and dark and empty.  My God, I knew this would hurt like hell, yet I underestimated it completely.