Tears burned in my eyes, as
I pulled into a parking space between the Morning Call and the Besthoff
Sculpture Garden. Memories of Kirt aren’t enough today. I ache to have him
near, to smell his skin, to put my face in his neck. Today without him hurts.
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| What's the point? |
In four months it will be
two years without him. You’d think I’d be getting the hang of this by now. I’m
bringing him with me where ever I go. I think about what he would say about a
piece of art. I know he’d like the naked golden archer poised on a golden ball.
From the bench where I sit the pine trees make the perfect back drop.
A lady Mallard rushes out of
the brush near my bench. A green headed boy follows in hot pursuit. She takes
to flight just past the armless Venus. He wanders aimlessly without her.
The sobs, which threatened,
reside. Watching people observe the sculptures gives me pleasure. I know them
so well. Safety, comfort, understanding, and something to admire; and we are
all quite contended little creatures.
A day in the park watching
the genders and breeds of my species gives me that essential touch stone, the
one which shows me the facets of God’s great gift to us. We are not boring.
Doing this each day to keep myself
occupied and maybe entertained, helps me continue living my life, but it’s so
freaking lonely. Alone is better than a bad fit. Even when I’m with people my mind reaches out to my husband with a thought or a declaration of love.
It doesn't stop.
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