Seven Years Later

FEBRUARY 13, 2016; 11:10 PM:

I sit in semi-darkness, the light from the darkness illuminating his face. Tonight I am afraid to sleep, afraid to miss a moment when he might open his eyes, a moment he may want me, a moment before he leaves. . . . I never thought of it as being this way, just me and him alone at home for hours on end, a vigil waiting for him to die. I appreciate the hospice people while they are here, but I am glad when they are gone and leave us alone. . . . Alone. Once he is gone, when my tears can't cause him pain, I'll let go and cry. And I may never stop.

FEBRUARY 14, 2016; 4:30 AM:

I woke up at 3:00 AM, Sunday morning, and told him Happy Valentine's Day. I drifted back to sleep. I woke up again at 4:00 AM. I knew immediately that he was gone. His body was relaxed; his face clear of pain. And I hurt so much for me, for my loss, but cried with tears of happiness for him, that his suffering was no more.

FEBRUARY 13, 2023 – SEVEN YEARS LATER:

The pain remains, as it always will, but it is different now, It’s hard to explain to someone who hasn’t suffered a loss: you never stop hurting, you never stop grieving. The grief doesn’t lessen, you don’t hurt less – but it becomes more bearable. It recedes to the background; it’s no longer forefront in your mind. Yet it is always there, below the surface. No longer immediate, no longer beating down on you every moment of every day, but there always. Love never dies, nor does the pain of losing that love.

Still, in the end, we cry for ourselves, for our own pain. We don’t cry for those we lost – they are on the other side, they have seen and know God in a way still unattainable for us. We shall meet them again one day, but for now, for now we hold them deep in our hearts, in a special place that belongs just to them.