THE LONELY LONGING

Happiness is what eludes me. . .

the happiness I felt

when she told

how seven roses

from me

seven months after we met

made her love me more.

The happiness I felt

when she promised

in sunshine and storm

until death do us part.

The happiness I felt

during those first nights

when being alone vanished

at each touch of her body.

The happiness I felt

when each

of our children

then grandchildren

brought more love

to our family.

Now happiness,

like words

spoken at a funeral,

can’t get through

the lonely longing.

John A. Bayerl, January 5, 2012

Those who know about these things tell me that I'm going through a "reintegrating process" into what my life will be like without the woman who completed me.  There is some truth to that.  It's certainly not what it was like right after Gwen died when I would wake up in the morning and wonder what I could possibly do to fill the intervening hours until it was time to go back to bed for the night.  I guess it's progress to say that I now have things to do that keep me busy and interested during each day.  What would I have I done if I hadn't discovered writing, and a community of others who support me at every turn?  How do people ever get through this by themselves?

As far as happiness is concerned, I don't think I will have again the kind of happiness that flows from the ordinary events of living that, as I now look back, were barely noticed.  Gwen loved for me to massage her feet and I loved doing it for her.  There aren't many things two people who love each other can do that are more intimate than that.  Was I happy and contented when I did that?   Of course I was.  Was Gwen ecstatic?  Of course she was.  Did we talk about it in those terms?  Of course we didn't, although it often lead to more intimate exchanges.  It was just what we did; it could be said, only partly as a pun, that it was one of the ways we kept in touch with each other. . .satisfied our skin hunger.

Even on that last night, Dear, I enjoyed massaging your scalp, and you were so appreciative.  One of my fondest memories of you--it's always the little things.