When Someone You Love Plans on Being Around Forever
How I keep my love alive even after his death
On a day when I’m feeling lonely — I will sit outside — my eyes closed. I’m quiet — almost meditating — waiting for a gentle breeze to caress me.
His touch
A gush of wind blows the hair across my neck and I am transported to another world — my imaginary world.
In my mind’s eye — I am standing at my kitchen sink washing dishes. My husband quietly approaches from behind, nuzzles my neck and kisses my ear. He could always surprise me.
The sensation of his warm breath — the tingle of excitement from his sweet kiss — the electric surge through my veins when his body presses against mine — that is the world I feel. That is the world I don’t want to forget.
It has been so long since I’ve been touched like that. The lightest of breezes now takes me there. So, I’ll sit outside on a windy day and pretend I’m being caressed by my husband
He’s been dead three years. But after 42 years in a very affectionate and loving marriage — my body aches for his touch.
So, I turn to natural forces and the world inside my head.
His artistry
Luckily, several of his paintings grace our home. So he’s always visually present. And I can recall many of our discussions about art and creativity.
I learned so much from him. He was an artist, an architect, an engineer, a natural teacher, mentor, cheerleader. He loved explaining the methodology that went into his work, his designs. I loved learning it.
His favorite saying was “Art should not be arbitrary.”
Yet, there are no new talks together over a nightly glass of wine. I go to museums, view other works. And I long for his input — for our shared experience.
So, I come home, close my eyes and let my fingers trace the graceful lines in one of his dimensional paintings.
His voice
Thanks to the digital age, he’s captured on some video and audio recordings that I can replay to hear him, see his smile or an unexpected “hello” wave to the camera.
We even took part in the Story Corps project — which records conversations of people’s everyday stories. So there’s a 50-minute recording of us talking as a couple.
I asked him about his time as a 17-year-old enlistee during World War II with the US Navy. I asked about his experience as a college student at Yale, about his parents, and how he wanted our grandkids to remember him.
But I saved my critical question for the end. (I’m a reporter, after all, used to having elected officials avoid or walk away when questions get tough.)
After pointing out there was a rather large difference in our ages and that I could not imagine my life without him, my question was:
“If you were to die first, and I don’t want you to, you promised me you wouldn’t”
He laughs.
“But if you were to die first, what would you come back and say to me? Bobbie, straighten up?”
“I’d want you to be happy…”
“But what if I can’t be happy without you?” I sobbed into the microphone.
“You’re just going to have to learn how kiddo,” he paused. “You’re just going to have to learn how. It’s not the first time this has happened to anybody. You’ll have to bite the bullet. And besides, maybe I won’t be the first. I plan on being around forever.”
It ain’t easy.
Yet, I’m learning ways to keep him around forever — carrying him in my heart, replaying our conversations, sitting outside waiting for a gentle breeze to caress me.
