An Open Letter To Time
Time, it is said, heals all wounds. Sorry, time, but I don't believe you can do that. Nearly seven months after Christine finally passed, there's still pain and loss. I've been talking to friends about this, people who have also lost loved ones. They have all told me the same thing, that there's always an empty space in their lives, and no amount of house-clearing, no bonfire of the heart, no memorial service, can salve that wound.
In time (they tell me), things get easier.
In Greek mythology, Mnemosyne, goddess of memory, gives birth to the Muses. Erato, muse of poetry does not help me. Her other daughters try, but fail - Clio helps me keep the history of our love, but also the pain; Euterpe reminds me of her with music each time I turn on the radio, and Melpomene has been a constant companion in the tragedy. Polyhymnia I will invoke in hymn on All Saints' Day, and I will soon honour Christine's memory through Terpsichore's gift of dance, this Thanksgiving, in the ballet. Thankfully, Thalia's comedy raises my heart and spirit, but stargazing, O Urania, brings her to mind each night, with sadness, each star like a tear shed between us.
Life Goes On
Of course, some things do change, and life moves on. Scratch me, though, and under the "I'm okay" is the six-year-old who is still bewildered and lost. That said, I recently found my heart opening again, and realised that no matter how the empty rooms might bear down on me, that I could love, and be loved again. It's good to be able to share, to live and appreciate the world with someone new, and though my heart still aches, it's better than before. I have someone to talk to when I need to, who accepts my tears with openness when I am saddened. I can hold and be held and have it not cut like a knife. This makes me happy in a different way, but does not heal, though it dulls the edge of the blade.
I sing your legacy each day, Christine, as I did the day you left. I wear your shirts with careful delight, and occasionally glimpse back and see you, smiling at me, radiantly filling my life. I miss you, sweet my love, and always will. Your footprints may have been washed off the beach, but I still have the memory of them.