EVERY NOW AND THEN

There are always things to look forward to.  Today it's my memoir-writing class and this evening I'm being brave and attending a concert at The Ark, alone.  The performer is Pete Mulvey, a folk singer of sorts. Son Mike and I have enjoyed his songs, especially the one about blowing up the elevator at Prange's.  As always, I look forward to this sort of thing with great ambivalence.  Gwen and I loved live performances of any kind, so it's hard to do this without her.  Yet, life goes on, and I have to find what I can enjoy and be comfortable doing.

I said that life goes on, and, indeed it does, yet it goes on in such a different way for those of us who grieve.  I told a friend yesterday that what the world is allowed to see has to be so different from what's going on inside each one of us.  The pain is a constant presence, it seems inescapable at this time.  Gee, that sounds maudlin, and I don't think that's how I meant it.  It's not a "here today, gone tomorrow" kind of thing at all.  There are still times when I completely melt down and wallow in it.  Those times have become less frequent, but one never know when they will come knocking on the door.  All I know is that I need to own it every time it occurs.  It's kind of like this little poem:

EVERY NOW AND THEN

Every now and then

I get a glimpse of the future.

Making my way without you.

A friend, whose husband died,

three years ago,

tells me she’s doing fine

But I know she’s lying,

about the pain,

it’s all inside now.

John A. Bayerl, February 15,  2011

It's kind of a cold, icy day for late in March.  It reminds me of something you said in a letter a long time ago: It's snowing in April, but even that can't put out the glow of spring you put into my heart by saying you love me. Was that special, or what?  We really would say stuff like that to each other.