Today, after a month of grief, I have no words of my own. Only words of others.
From Healing After Loss by Martha Hickman, a book of daily readings a friend sent me who lost her husband 1 year and 3 months ago:
“‘The problem with death is absence.’ – Roger Rosenblatt
After all our attempts to comfort ourselves and to make sense out of dying, we are left with a huge hole in the fabric of our lives – ‘I miss you. I miss you. I miss you.” And then what?…
[there is] perpetual danger of falling into the astonishing abyss of the person’s death…
Perhaps they become our guardian angels, our link with the other side. But to let them go initially is one of the compromises we are forced to make with life, and our longing for them sometimes makes the prospect of our own death almost right.”
And from a poem my daughter sent me in the last hours of Larry’s life:
from Funeral Blues, by W. H. Auden He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.