Stages

The dawn is still beautiful. Is it allowed to be beautiful?

Are there really stages of grief? I know there are because I have lived them once already. I am grieving all over for the same man I mourned before.

My sorrow is not less now even though it is tinged with relief. I have no care decisions to make now. He made that final decision when he died. Life drew out of his body and left him in peace.

He suffered no more confusion. Breath was his final loss. His life goes on in my heart. He is under my stewardship, much as he had been these past five years.

Am I in denial because I yell out I love you Burt? Today I asked his picture permission. You don’t think I’m crazy, do you, when I tell you I love you. You always loved when I said it.

Am I bargaining when I alter the memories and rummage for a different path. Burt stays to see Hamilton with me; he revels in the experience; we walk home together. It would not be the last time (or nearly) that we go to a show together.

Is it crazy, ok, is it strange that I can smile at memories from the darkly intense days when he was falling into dementia? Is it odd that I found his symptoms an endearment? Am I deluding myself when I recall how deeply I cherished him in sickness? Love came to have a new meaning. Its texture had changed and I clung to it for comfort. It represented who we had been as much as who we had become.

Saying I love you Burt gave us comfort. I sheltered in that love. It will see me through these next stages.

I love you Burt, I say to the smile in the photo. I love you Burt, I yell out as I arise. The dawn out our window is beautiful.