Was two years today.  Sat at your resting place for hours.  Of course, you never rested, and you’re not in that place.  And I pray you’re elsewhere we’ll meet.  But I pretended and talked to you anyway, in the rain, the weather you loved.

It’s two years, since I lost my life, which was our life. Voided.  I’m living some third person existence, because my life is elsewhere, with you, mybeauty.  There’s blessings; Phinn, Paige, Tracy, Jen.  And your boys, of course.  But they’re meant to be shared with you.   When it got bad, you rued the sharing of which you wouldn’t be a part.  Our greatest gift was stolen.

After two years, one’d say and think the pain’d be diminished.   One’d be wrong.  It’s always there   A song.  A place.  Breathing.

Part of your family is upset I write on the internet.  Part of your family was upset because  though in Boston, you’re not in your elders’ cemetery.   But both were your own choices.   Your wishes were “to be remembered”  and “to be in a nice place back home.”  Yes, we wish it wasn’t 3000 miles away.  But, of course we realize you’re with us anyway.

There were so very many incredible things people did not know about you.  Even me.  You had no ego, no self-ishness, took no credit.  After forty-one years together and three years of writing the amazing things you did, I still find out stuff.  Just last week, a local doctor and her lawyer friend, neither of whom I know, called and said how wonderful you were to them.  A week earlier, looking through a box for a birthday card to send, I found a handwritten note from members of the 1999 Columbine Senior Class to you, thanking you and your Chatsworth High Leadership Class for your help.   i am missing the import of my life, but, more crucially, the importance of yours.

i’m on a  full Southwest flight to Boston, amidst a bunch of wary strangers, crying my eyes out, watching Theresa Caputo on inflight tv.   Our son’s work is reality tv, so I know how scripted, cut, and inauthentic it is.  And online snitch-laden.  Yet no subject has cast doubt on this woman’s work.  So, as disbelieving as could possibly be, I’m crazy-hoping it’s real, bawling at some poor widow’s reading.

i try to set your example.  i try to smile and converse and praise and say the right thing, even when i don’t mean it.  But, as you used to say about my relatives, “That’s your job.”  And i haven’t the talent to do it

We scrimped and lived month-to-month, for retirement.  For what?

OK, so we had a less-than ideal marriage.  But we never cheated or separated or even said we didn’t love each other.   Yes, we argued a ton, so maybe those’re damning with faint praise, but it still means a lot.

You are the love of my life, the mother of our boys, my bff, and, though I didn’t acknowledge it, my teacher.  You always told me we should live for the moment, because we’d never know when something might happen.  I just didn’t grasp it.  No-one in the world grasps it better than me now.

There’s no solution, no do-over, no fix-it-next-time, no apology from God.  And worst of all, none from me.

There’s a depth to which one plummets that’s fathomable only to others who’ve lost their beloved.

This isn’t my world any more.  Without you, there’s no unbridled joy.  Nothing to share.  No sense, no meaning, just time.  Time i have that you don’t.  How fucking unjust is that ?  Your last year, retirement, savings, grandchildren stolen.  Hope You got a good reason, God.  No reason’s  good enough for me, unless she’s there waiting.

There’s both a darkness and white noise to what’s left.

That can only be dissipated by seeing you again.

Otherwise eternity’s a waste and heaven’s impossible.

I want to write words that echo the thunder.

I want a reunion that makes angels cry.  Nothing less.  Listening out there?

I miss you so much, cuckoo.

For me, the tragedy is you may never know.

There’s the lesson, kids.