Maybe it's the weather, kind of windy, cold, rainy. Maybe it's just the way this grief process goes. Whatever it is, today was weird. In many ways, a very good day, a nice workout at the gym (I'm still not comfortable with the old friends that Gwen and I knew when she went there with me, it's not their fault, I'm just not there yet.), then a nice lunch with friends from the old Forestbrooke neighborhood. Then, John asked me to join him and Brooke downtown in Ann Arbor for dinner. What could be better than that? And, it was wonderful, Brooke is so sweet and growing up so quickly; John always has interesting stories to tell from the education wars. In between, phone calls with Jeanne, Anne and Gwen's brother, Ted. A call to Jeanne Bonetti in Iron River found her not home, but, in a stroke of good fortune, Gwen's friend from high school, Rene, was visiting at Jeanne's, and we had the nicest conversation.
All-in-all, who could ask for a better day at this stage of the grieving process? Why then, did I have a meltdown this morning? Just cried and sobbed and missed my sweetheart. Later, when I parked the car in Ann Arbor, it was across the street from a Polish restaurant that Gwen and I had been to with a friend and his wife a while ago. Just the memory of that evening, remembering how Gwen thought it so perfect that boiled potatoes were served with her meal, the way her grandmother would have, brought forth the tears again. As I read this over it occurs to me that it's a perfect description of what it's like to be what my friend calls giving an academy award performance--nice and happy and smiley on the outside. Once beyond the red carpet, however, the sadness and loneliness and inexplicable waves of grief continue to have their way with us. And so it goes.
Another Friday night with all that entails:
All-in-all, who could ask for a better day at this stage of the grieving process? Why then, did I have a meltdown this morning? Just cried and sobbed and missed my sweetheart. Later, when I parked the car in Ann Arbor, it was across the street from a Polish restaurant that Gwen and I had been to with a friend and his wife a while ago. Just the memory of that evening, remembering how Gwen thought it so perfect that boiled potatoes were served with her meal, the way her grandmother would have, brought forth the tears again. As I read this over it occurs to me that it's a perfect description of what it's like to be what my friend calls giving an academy award performance--nice and happy and smiley on the outside. Once beyond the red carpet, however, the sadness and loneliness and inexplicable waves of grief continue to have their way with us. And so it goes.
Another Friday night with all that entails:
WEEKENDS
Each Friday night
I can’t help but recall the words
we spoke as young lovers:
“I don’t like getting used to not having you
with me; my week seem almost useless,
weekends fly by.”
Now, when a weekend is just a weekend;
two empty day, one following the other,
I fear I’ll never get used to not having you
with me. I long to just once more
wait for the weekend
like a child waits for Christmas.
John A. Bayerl, April 15, 2011
I always feel your presence when I'm with Brooke, Dear, and I know you'll be with me next week when I visit Nick and Izzy. Good night, sweetheart.
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