YOUR MISSING PRESENCE

Sundays are as closed to normal as life gets for me, and it certainly is nowhere near what things were like when Gwen was with me.  Be that as it is, there is a pattern and rhythm to Sundays that makes me almost feel like Gwen is with me.  I'll be reading something in the paper and put it down to tell her about an interesting article or something like that.  Such disappointment when I begin to say something and then realize I'm alone.  It's not as pathetic as that sounds, but always a slap in the face compliments of cold reality.  There's a poem rumbling around in me about this.  I don't have the details, but the title is going to be something I heard someone say at a meeting about trying to make the one we love be less gone.

After a nice breakfast I was off to church, I leave an hour early because we have choir practice before Mass.  After Mass I decided I wanted to have lunch at the Afternoon Delight, where Gwen and I often enjoyed eating, but the line was way too long, so I didn't do that.  After Mass I had a nice visit with Jenny, a high school friend of John's and Jeanne's.  We hadn't seen each other since Gwen's death, so that was kind of tough.  Her dad has Alzheimer's, and is not doing well.  I told her how hard I know it must before her mom to be the primary caregiver for him.  Gwen and I were friends with her parents.  Later in the afternoon I talked on the phone with Lou Ann Hansen, our friend in Tacoma whom  we knew  the year we lived in Portland.  We reminisce and commiserate about how it is now without our caregiver responsibilities.  I still plan to take a trip out there this summer to visit with her and another friend from that era.  Also, of course, I look forward to visiting with my nephew and nieces in Portland.

In some regards, a kind of normal Sunday, except:

YOUR MISSING PRESENCE

There are times when I become

aware, like the first time,

that you will never again

be part of those tiny little things,

like reading a newspaper, that add

up to a lifetime of love.

Your missing presence speaks to me

of when you were with me still:

that gentle smile,

a simple taste of you,

your soft yielding touch,

the sweet smell of you,

words spoken tenderly,

all your eyes told me.

When you were with me still.

John A. Bayerl, June 16, 2011

Sunday night, our favorite time to unwind, get ready for Monday.  Be with me still.