AKA "The Writing Woman"
Dear Rick, I can’t stand it. I can’t stand that you’re not here with me. Yes, I’m proud of myself. I drove to Florida. But the pride doesn’t count for much when compared to the misery I’m feeling right now. Not seeing you in the chair next to me at sunset was devastating. You’re supposed…
Day two of my solo journey started out okay. I awoke to great weather in Bowling Green, Kentucky – warm and sunny. It was strange packing the car by myself. I always traveled with Rick and he usually packed while I finished dressing. I’ll admit, Rick spent most of our marriage finding things to do…
I made it through day one of my driving trip from Michigan to Florida. I had three small meltdowns triggered by songs on the radio, plus some memories that surfaced as I passed through locations we visited on past trips. Three days ago was the seven month anniversary of Rick’s death. In the months after…
Dear Rick, I made it through another significant day. Our first date was March 9, 1996. We celebrated the occasion every year, and yesterday was a tough one. I had to pause a few times during the work day to cry. I just miss you so terribly that I can’t stand it. I think back…
Last night, I rewrote two words in the poem since he’s no longer simply “miles” away. Today, there was a beautiful picture of him in my Facebook memories and I thought – wow! – that will fit perfectly with the poem! So often, life offers these odd little gifts.
To Rick Distance cannot stop my love From seeking your heart’s strings. Our souls communicate past death, And mine to yours still sings. The great expanse of heavens Can’t keep our love apart. For still I feel you near me; I sense you in my heart. My mind’s eye beckons you at will. I see…
I wrote this poem when Rick and I had been dating for a little more than two months. He lived in Minnesota and was often in various parts of the country for his job. I sent it to him as part of an email message. He printed it and saved it, and I found it among…
Hope. I didn’t want to get out of bed this morning. It happens. I lay there contemplating why. Why today? Why is it so difficult to get up this morning? I realized that today I feel no hope. No hope of ever enjoying my life again. No hope for a future that is meaningful. No…
I’m moving on.
I’ve taken pictures of your office, as you had it when you were here. It’s my attempt to maintain your memory. The office was you: your art, your collections, your special retreat filled with all your favorite things, gadgets, technology.
Your blue chair – the ugly Early American monstrosity – is still there where it was relocated after many an argument when you rescued it from your mother’s basement. NO. It CANNOT stay in our living room! I disagreed with having it in the house, let alone our modern Ikea-furnished living room. Finally, you capitulated (after how many arguments?) and removed it to your office.
Dear Rick, I have missed so much about you since you’ve been gone. I miss your love. I miss your touch. I miss your intelligence and wit and quirky sense of humor. I miss your huge strong body, and your muscles and your hugs. I miss your unequaled and nonjudgmental acceptance of all that I…