A Life Built for Two

Life Built for Two

I’ve been writing a lot, but nothing that would make any sense to anyone else reading it. It’s mostly just fractured thoughts, frayed memories, and scattered wishes of my life with Edmond. There are some themes I suppose, some through-lines that are the beginning of patterns I could follow and unfold. But, each is more like thread snipped off at the knotted end, the final move after a seam has been sewn closed. These little leads are like the negligible thread pulled that has been dangling from the hem of a skirt. More or less, what has been showing up are pieces to be discarded, edited out for lack of coherency and clarity. 

Lately, each time I start to follow those potential pathways, I lose interest. I turn back and begin another page or put my writing away altogether because my heart is not in the rest of the story. The pattern I thought had traction fades, and I find myself searching and working too hard to continue. So I don’t. I find that even the history itself doesn’t matter, not like the love does. The love is all that I care to hold onto most of the time. I do not even bother at times to correct the record, because those who are still here and need to be right will tell the tale they need to tell.

This feeling of near boredom is an inner stillness, a place of waiting, and a moment to release what used to hold my interest. The motions of daily life do not hold life itself. Maybe I’ve completely scattered. I am in utter chaos. I feel like I have been here before. Perhaps this the deepest spot in the tangle ball of the liminal state where I reside. I don’t know if I hope that is true or not. If it is true, then eventually I will have to leave a lot behind for a new system and structure. Surely, I cannot remain here forever. I will have to sort, release, and reorganize what is left. Some will definitely have to go into the fire. Some of that has already begun. But his drawers are still full; his clothes still hang; his things are still on his bedside table. The garage and shop are a bit tidier, and the stuff is all still in there. 

Sitting here, though, in the in-between, in the goo of this cocoon that is not of my choosing, I have every possibility before me, all potentials. Until I make a decision about one thing or another, everything is on the table. Making a choice will eliminate all the other potential actions and avenues. Choosing shuts down what lives in paradox in liminality. I am not ready to do that for the most part. I prefer to sit in the possibilities even if it is a bit of a mess. I am not ready to ignite more multiverses in a smattering of decision making. Besides, what if I choose one way and Edmond comes through another? I don’t want to miss him.

I know this is not really true, that he can find me on all paths. But being still, waiting, not getting rid of things that might still have his scent or finger prints on them is possibly a way to stop time or slow it or capture it. And even that grows stale. I cannot turn time back, and so eventually I will need to set his belongings, some of them, free. Even if I don’t actively do so, it will happen when I die. Whatever hasn’t been completed will be someone else’s to do.

I am not ready for more change, yet. So, I now understand how people begin to accumulate stacks of paper, piles of clothing (clean or otherwise), or buckets of random objects that have no clear category. It is overwhelming staying on top of what must be done in a life built for two when you are one.  

It feels like you have changed again. Our communications are different; your way of connecting has shifted. I feel like I am always behind and cannot keep up. Sometimes I feel like you have left me. I know, I know. These are my old patterns, my stuff to heal and workout —the part of me that can so easily feel wounded and left behind. I am continuing to work on it. I know you keep your promises. You are a man of your word. We made an agreement, and we will keep it. I am trying to find you, connect with this new layer to you or perhaps lack of layers, more of your own pure light perhaps. I remind myself, that your time is different than mine, timeless. Please be patient with me and remember how things are here with so much gravity and human imperfections and linear time. I have to remind myself often to not take it personally, to not feel abandoned, that you are still near and with me. Your expansion and growth holds me, supports us both as I do my part to carry out our collective intentions here. When I connect with that I feel you nearer, when I can unburden myself from the blankets of selfishness where I sometimes hide the insistent part of me that wants you with me here like we were. I do want you. I am admittedly selfish about it. And, I am so delighted you have this beautiful freedom. You can fly and be everywhere and anywhere all at once. I am sad and angry, joyful and elated. I am emotionally everywhere all at once. Hilarious. That is grief in a nutshell: the conflicting often paradoxical feelings about change. I feel how you still care for us through so many of the good people you brought into our lives, that you send to our doorstep right when we need them. So many of these people are good men who have stepped up to support us, especially William who needs these men as he finds his way. You were the first good man in his life. We miss you. We love you. Be with us.

Yesterday, I woke up to so many tasks, including winterizing the office building, our home, and the garage apartment. I did not have to search for support or help. Erik was already on it so much so I had to deny other offers. I did have to search for the grief in my body though. I woke up to so much doing. I could have left it, gone on with my day, and avoided having to feel that pain. But, that would mean abandoning part of myself and you and us. So, if it doesn’t find me first, I look for it. I turned from our mirrored sink basins where I was getting ready for the day and stood before the altar on top of the dresser counter that holds pieces of you, me, and us: St. Francis’s prayer, shotgun shells (empty and full), your father’s airline captain’s caps, my grandmother’s delicate china demitasse cup, various gemstones, a wooden box, holy water, a candle, and feathers. I took a breath and waited. There it was, just below my heart, another breath, and the tears came blessing my face and the altar. I feel both sad and grateful to carry this with me. I love you. I miss you. Be with me.

I have not had much time, especially since November and through the holidays, to grieve, to cry, to just let it all go. Ramping back up into routines of school and work took so much energy, and then the extreme cold weather descended upon us, and I had to remember all the things it us both to remember. A life built for two is a pleasure, at least most of the time. Even when it was hard, we were equally invested and we did it together. 

Now that things have thawed out, so have I. My tears cannot stop flowing. I finally slept nearly eight hours for the first time in months, and only a handful of nights since Edmond died. I am realizing my health and wellness have suffered. My physical body has paid a price especially during non-ordinary weather events when Edmond would have lead the way, and I would have happily followed his lead. 

We were good at that most of the time, and much better at that in the last five years we had together. I lead in some ways, he lead in others. We offered that to each other and our family. 

As per my usual, despite my extra efforts, I have misplaced a set of keys. I haven’t been able to find this huge bundle of office keys for a few days. I have looked everywhere I can think I might have stashed them when I was in a hurry, wearing a different jacket, or carrying another bag. They were even color coded per office tenant. After I got home, I decide to look in Edmond’s truck. I opened the console and was digging around, not finding them, when this light blue envelope surfaced. He kept the notes I wrote him, and I still find them in desk drawers, bags, suitcases, coat pockets, and between pages in a book. This one, like nearly all the others I find, had an E. on the outside in my handwriting. I opened and read the note. Based on the contents, I had written it at least five or six years ago. Of course, I burst into tears reading my words to him.

Ah, another moment of our transformation, both independently and together in our journey as a couple. We had gotten off track or outgrown our track, both of us ready for an upgrade. We hit the bumps in the road as most marriages do, some more painfully bumpy than others. One or the other of us usually called us to the carpet, or asked for a re-up of our agreement to reflect new conditions or growth. Blessings and curses of being married to a man of the law and a woman of healing. I am grateful this was part of our original agreement, part of us, that we did not walk away from this love between us but renegotiated it. It was good work and hard work.

My note referenced the OakElm, the two trees I love so dearly that grow together as one on the property line. I am thankful I kept saying yes and he did too. We did actually grow that way, so attached, sharing the same marrow of life. Separating was excruciating, even for a few days. Our separation through his death still leaves me aching and halved. 

I saw your note to me in the crisp, cold, blue Sunday sky, the criss-cross messages written in contrails. I don’t understand them, yet. Your new language is beyond me, and yet I know you speak messages of love. Or, maybe you are like me, in a liminal state of your own, and your patterns are unstructured, fractured, frayed, and scattered. Maybe you too are feeling lost in this new territory. I love you. I hold space and support for the changes you are experiencing. It is not fair that I assume it is easier where you are because you are free from your body. As above, so below, right? I apologize for only thinking of myself. I wish I were with you there or here or anywhere. I will listen better to hear what your experience is like, and not assume you are in some perfect place with it all figured out. I found the office keys by the way. Apparently, I am still getting used to the person I am becoming. They were right where you always insisted they should be, on the key hook in plain sight. I love you. I miss you. Let’s be together in whatever ways we can.

I know you hear me when I feel frustrated, tired, and refuse to cry over some appliance or fixture that has broken. I will not cry because I am doing hard things, or while I am doing what needs to be done. My tears that come later are because you are not here with me, doing it all along side me. We built this life for two to live together as one. It does feel like one thing after another needs my attention. Sitting down is such a privilege some days. It is no different than before for the most part; it just feels heavier and more exhausting than when we did it together. I know you miss doing it all with me too, or even for me. You were such a good provider and protector and caretaker. I love you.

The crash came after things began to thaw, and what was broken became apparent. Only two repairs post-freeze; one was simple, and it’s done. The other is a bit more of an ordeal, but it is inconsequential for the most part to our daily living. After those revelations, I began to let down my defenses, sit down, and come back to myself. Then, the tears all came flooding from me and have not really stopped since Saturday. Keeping it together to get things done matters, and letting it go later does too. I keep missing more of him. I remember more things to miss. I will have to live another several lifetimes to finish missing him, and I will be grateful if I do not have to do so.

Today, in yoga, I was prompted to remember the rhythm of my own breath. For an instant I did, and then I remembered yours in its unique pattern harmonizing with mine. I remembered your breath and how your inhale and exhale felt and sounded when you were relaxed and near me. As I lay there on my back in savasana, I remembered and breathed tears that fell in tiny quiet streams from the outside corners of my eyes filling my ears. I remembered your breath, how it felt on my cheek and neck, its warmth and its sweetness. I miss breathing with you. I am finding my way back to better self-care, more sitting, more sleep and rest, fewer glasses of wine in the week, and more cups of tea. Tonight, I ran myself a bath before bed. You used to do that for me sometimes when I needed it to get my body ready for sleep. Sleep has been so hard, still. The bath and the rain outside were kind of perfect, so I opened the window by the tub so I could hear the drops on the metal roof and in the garden. I miss your oak next to my elm, your strength pressed up against me leaving no room in-between. We really did shape ourselves like Oak-Elm. How will I learn to feel you there in your new form? I closed my eyes to hear the rain better. It grew louder, and I felt you with me as I inhaled the mix of mist and steam from the rain and bath. I love you. I miss you. Be with me.