Going through a storage locker full of things we collected together, remembering the auction where we stood in below zero weather to purchase something we wanted enough to endure until we carried off our trophy; or how Kirt found his prized leather jacket. Finally, I smile instead of cry.
Twenty-one months ago Kirt, my husband died. I thought I’d never get to acceptance. Pervasive sadness, eased only by escape, now lightens on ordinary days.
|circa 1985 working on our farm|
Accepting that my husband lead a wonderful life, despite pain and suffering and it was time for his mother to take him, completes my grief cycle, but I still mourn his loss. That will never change; I have a feeling.
The day I left New Orleans to return home to Puerto Rico, a good friend sent pictures from circa 1985. Thank you, Gail. My heart skipped a beat. My nipples still get hard when I see those sinewy forearms.
For twenty-one months I’ve been useless; owning my life means having a purpose. All those, who know me exclaim with me. Dogs!
Since Kirt died, I haven’t been able to focus. It gives me a headache or makes me feel jittery. This requires me to take better care of myself.
Shortly after I retired Kirt began to deteriorate, first he lost a toe, then another, finally the leg; and then, he died. Nothing prepared me for the following hell, as life went on.
It’s time for me to stop hurting and embrace the life I have left. Kirt left me a better person, than I was when I met him. I hope it’s in God’s program for me to be with him again.