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6 Months: "It feels like six minutes."
May. 1st, 2009 10:00 am...I said.
"It will probably stay that way for quite a few years, dear," he replied gently.
Sometimes we build up fragments to accumulate, and to try and replace what and who went, but ultimately, all that can be done - and has been done - is to accept the loss, and continue because of it and despite it. I have quit my job, and taken on more partners, and discussed it both to those with a partner-vibe and strangers; anyone who wished to listen, in fact. Whether I wanted to talk has always felt like an irrelevant issue compared to the value of trying to remember her, to hold on to my memories and communicate them effectively. That's the hardest part. Throughout I still feel an inadequacy at trying to express who she was as a person. What she meant and means to me, I haven't even begun.
In the end, as is becoming increasingly the case in so many areas of my life, I feel that I can only resort to colour. The tattoo that was "her" mark was yellow, and like yellow ink will, it's faded to a scar. I plan to have it touched up on June 21st, her birthday, and add one or two more marks, where people came along and gave me lessons that feel like they've already stained my skin. Not to be scared of comfort, or matters of control, or of my faith and it's witchy heart. I have learned since she went that the barriers we create can sometimes not just be let down, but disappear overnight when faced with those we love that are still here and that arrive into one's life. On June 21st, another barrier will go, when I try to remember her Colour. Who she was when she hummed to a crotchety child, and when told me she loved me. It's been extremely painful to realise it's getting harder to remember the exact shade of her voice. Getting that mark, on one level, is flying in the face of that hurt.
I feel stronger, and in a lot of areas of my life, but I would love to pick up the phone and tell her how so much has changed without her around. That I can't is something I view as the price for gaining that inner strength.
"It will probably stay that way for quite a few years, dear," he replied gently.
Sometimes we build up fragments to accumulate, and to try and replace what and who went, but ultimately, all that can be done - and has been done - is to accept the loss, and continue because of it and despite it. I have quit my job, and taken on more partners, and discussed it both to those with a partner-vibe and strangers; anyone who wished to listen, in fact. Whether I wanted to talk has always felt like an irrelevant issue compared to the value of trying to remember her, to hold on to my memories and communicate them effectively. That's the hardest part. Throughout I still feel an inadequacy at trying to express who she was as a person. What she meant and means to me, I haven't even begun.
In the end, as is becoming increasingly the case in so many areas of my life, I feel that I can only resort to colour. The tattoo that was "her" mark was yellow, and like yellow ink will, it's faded to a scar. I plan to have it touched up on June 21st, her birthday, and add one or two more marks, where people came along and gave me lessons that feel like they've already stained my skin. Not to be scared of comfort, or matters of control, or of my faith and it's witchy heart. I have learned since she went that the barriers we create can sometimes not just be let down, but disappear overnight when faced with those we love that are still here and that arrive into one's life. On June 21st, another barrier will go, when I try to remember her Colour. Who she was when she hummed to a crotchety child, and when told me she loved me. It's been extremely painful to realise it's getting harder to remember the exact shade of her voice. Getting that mark, on one level, is flying in the face of that hurt.
I feel stronger, and in a lot of areas of my life, but I would love to pick up the phone and tell her how so much has changed without her around. That I can't is something I view as the price for gaining that inner strength.
