Yet, though true, today it has been hard to hold... I feel not the warmth of the gift that I'll always have within me, but the fragility of seams and scars surrounding the absence, and the endless beating drone of guilt and regret that I was not more: Before. That I was less than I could've or should've been: Then.
I know the ache I feel is not profoundly unique or special from that of others. It is perhaps less deserved than that of many: yesterday, today, tomorrow. I claim no loss beyond any others; in fact, I wish I had more of the strength I've seen in many. And perhaps it is bad form to share mine, again, here ... as though it is somehow special, or deserves unique attention. But I share it, because I feel like I need to, even if possibly being self-indulgent in expressing it, again.
While walking the dogs earlier, without even realizing they were there, tears were with us. As I stopped to cross the street, "Are you okay?" a couple on the corner asked. Thoughtful concern from strangers.
"Yeah" Pausing, "Thank you..." Pausing again, "I'm trying to be." I suppose that's something.
Earlier, in recounting her own feelings of a devastating loss, a dear friend said "grief bends time." That thought rang with such truth. One moment, it has found its place and you're living on, better for time shared - warmly recalling togetherness and being, embracing the gift you were given and will always have. Then time bends, and it all opens up, and you just fall into it.
After the beauty of the memorial concert, and through some attempts at focusing on today, it opened up. I fell into it.
But time will bend again ... if not tomorrow, perhaps soon. And I'll hear his music again, and - while still missing him - will be able feel the beat in my heart, to have my soul lifted by the melody, and to dance in recollection and love of its beauty.
Rest in Peace - Anton Zafereo - Feb 19, 1969 - Dec 29, 2014