I watched the US Men’s National Lacrosse gold medal game against Canada this afternoon and upon finishing it I decided to look at an old picture book I made for George. As I was thumbing through the pages so much hurt and pain welled inside of me. He looked so happy and handsome in all the pictures. Blazing blue eyes matching his rosy cheeks and wide toothy smile. He was a dream. And the girl next to him look so young and in love. I traced my fingers over the people in the pictures and hoped through osmosis I could drift back to those times. Breathe in the cool winter air of Toledo or smell the freshly cut grass of Fairfield. “My favorite memories are always with you.” I wrote at the end of the book. They’ll always be my favorite memories, but I don’t recognize myself in the pictures. The girl who is kissing, hugging and laughing with him is not me. When he went to the crematory, she burned away with him also.
In the words of Rita Ora, RIP to the girl you used to see. Again, I must mention this infamous widow community I’m a card holding member of; some wids can let go of their old life quickly and scramble to find a new normal, which I feel I did. But others who are years out still tremble and cling on to the life they once knew. George hasn’t visited me in my dreams lately. The hackneyed comments of he lives on with you have also lost their luster. He will appear when I need him most. I don’t think I need him yet. There will come a time when I’m fighting and clawing to continue on and then he will be there. Because the one thing about this whole experience is lows are low. I do think about death on days I am so numbingly lonely. Not in a suicidal way, in a way of it doesn’t scare me.
In other news, I found out about an hour away in Pennsylvania they have skydiving. Guess what just hopped onto the bucket list.