Originally Posted on September 6, 2011
It’s Monday afternoon when I write this and what I can feel right now is the pain of her absence. My arms ache for her. My heart is crushed by the fact that I will never hold her again.
Some days, I miss the ethereal bits about her, like her integrity, goodness, kindness, gentleness. Today, I miss her nearness. I miss the way she looked at me. I miss the way her lips were soft against mine when we kissed. I miss how her body felt pressed against mine. I miss the softness of her skin. I miss the scent of her hair.
Her head was shaved when she died. It’s stupid, but I almost wish I’d asked them to collect all that hair and give it to me. I’d give anything to smell her hair again.
I’d give anything to hug her again. I’d give anything to kiss her again. There’s no bottom to this well. It just goes down and down and down into an abyss of pain and sadness. The torment of this sorrow is indescribable. I feel sluggardly and utterly restless at the same time.
These ambushes are decreasing in frequency but increasing in intensity. I guess early on in grief, you get accustomed to the sensation that is so akin to utter despair: there is nothing I can do about this. There is nothing I can do to get her back. You get used to it early on, because it’s always on your mind.
Then you start to get on with things, and these ambushes come along. They’re likely no more intense in their pain delivery than they were early on, but after a few good days in a row, you forget it’s possible to hurt so badly. Your body and mind want to go back to a semblance of normalcy. Then this grief thing pops up like FLEC in the jungles of Cabinda, and it’s all over. Kiss your sunny day good-bye.
I am told that grief is a process. There are metaphors stating that grief is a journey. In that case, are we there yet?
I’d really like to be there, wherever or whatever the other side of this thing is.
Not yet. Not today.