Just one more mornin’ I had to wake up with the blues
Greg Allman
Thursday morning was just like many, feeling the emptiness of a moment I used to enjoy, saying good morning to the one I love. But also like some other mornings in the past year and a half, I was singing Dreams in my head. Not only do the lyrics speak to me at some level, the music is entrancing.
Just one more mornin’ I had to wake up with the blues Pulled myself outta bed, yeah Put on my walkin’ shoes
Went up on the mountain To see what I could see The whole world was fallin’ Right down in front of me
‘Cause I’m hung up on dreams I’ll never see, yeah, baby Ah, help me, baby Or this will surely be the end of me, yeah
Pull myself together Put on a new face Climb down off the hilltop, baby Get back in the race
‘Cause I’m hung up on dreams I’ll never see, yeah, baby, yeah Ah, help me, baby Or this will surely be the end of me, yeah
Pull myself together Put on a new face Climb down off the hilltop, baby Get back in the race
‘Cause I’m hung up on dreams I’ll never see, yeah, baby, oh Ah, help me, baby Or this will surely be the end of me, yeah
Greg Allman
I am not a blues artist. I am a fan of some southern rock, The Allman Brothers in particular. I was fortunate to have seen them multiple times in the early 70’s. Pam’s brother, Dave, gifted me with prints of Duane and Greg Allman that he meticulously crafted (Dave German Art). So many of the great guitar players and song writers of my generation learned their trade by listening to, and playing, the blues. But I am not writing this about that genre, rather, how the lyrics and music express how I feel.
Blue is how I feel these days. It’s not all I feel. I have a love of life – of my life – even as it so deeply hurts to live it without Pam. I enjoy my surroundings. I enjoy being and interacting with family and neighbors. I might even be making new friends!
Many routines are now metamorphized extensions of those we used to share. Which, of course, make me sad that I perform them alone. Even such things as doing the dishes or making the bed leave me feeling empty and blue. But often I also smile that I still perform them. Not necessarily exactly as she would have or how we might do them together. But they, as she, are part of the fabric of my being.
I am crying more often again these days. I miss Pam so much. Sure, life goes on. Much of what I am is good, better having known her and been loved by her. Sadness engulfs me without warning. Any of the many things such as those mentioned above trigger its onset. Such a paradox. Living and loving life. I rue Pam’s death to the depths of my being.
Last July I wrote a note of expression, “Letting go means giving up on all your dreams.” Sharing that with someone close to me, she suggested that I’m not giving up all my dreams, only those I had for Pam and me together. That may be true. They are/were more important than mine alone. And those I still cling to, such as creating and performing my music, are emptier now without her. I guess I’m still “hung up on dreams I’ll never see.” But it surely won’t be “the end of me.”
I live without Pam, and with her, and in honor of her. Yet, I dream.
Our daughter and her partner came for a visit on their way back from a seminar in Indianapolis. Please direct your thoughts and prayers for Greg’s daughter, Val, as she fights a medical battle!
Knowing of this visit in advance, Kelley and Greg brought a covered pickup truck to take the last of the boxes filled with Pam’s stamping materials and a bunch of holiday decorations I no longer want, but may have sentimental value to other family members. I prepared a spread of smoked brisket, pulled pork, and baby back ribs, with sides of beans, corn, and Texas toast. Way more than we could eat, but they took home the leftovers. I had the rare pleasure of preparing the meal and having people visit!
Just a few days prior, I considered they might be able to use some of the extra furniture, specifically, Pam’s office chair and her recliner. The ones matching mine. I’ve been looking at it with trepidation for over seventeen months now (more on that a bit later). As Kelley and Greg hauled boxes from downstairs, I dismantled the recliner. A wave of sadness gripped me (and still does as I write this), realizing another loss related to losing my dear Pam. I broke down crying even before we had a chance to get the chair out the door! So hard to let go, but I knew I had to.
Then, off they went. And, due to my nature, I could not let things remain in disarray. Get out the vacuum. Rearrange. Tidy up. Good for my psyche. More crying. I found myself saying, “I’m not getting rid of ‘you’, I’m just getting rid of stuff.” And don’t worry. There are many reminders of Pam still here. Many things we bought or created together. Things that meant a lot to her. Things I still use and enjoy every day.
Having completed my rearranged “therapy”, I took a picture and sent it to Kelley so she could see the change. I also sent it to my sister by text, knowing she would like to visualize the new configuration. She replied, “All yours now.” I must admit that it stung to read those words. But I know she meant well and, reflecting later, I realized that it is true. The transformation of this house, from ours to mine, is pretty much complete. Basically, every room now has my personality stamped on it. I know not what additional changes I will make. Hopefully, I won’t add too much “stuff!”
I took a walk around the neighborhood on that sunny, cool, autumn Sunday afternoon after all of the commotion. It dawned on me that last Thursday was October 12th, seventeen months since Pam died. For the first time, a monthly anniversary passed without my acknowledgement. Another milestone – one that passed without notice!
The evening was filled with sorrow for missing Pam! I sat in my chair and cried. I may be further along some continuum of recovery, but the pain is still sharp when it rears up. I miss her nearly every hour of every day. Yet I go on with my rearranged life alone in my rearranged house. Again I say, Pam wanted it this way. Every time I notice something of hers, something of ours that we acquired and enjoyed together, when I do things around the house the way she would (and obviously “trained” me), I have to say, “I love you, Pam.” Rearranged life or not.
It takes so many forms, and affects so many aspects of learning to live with major loss.
Written in the journal I keep by my living room recliner on September 29th, the statement continues to resonate as the days have passed since then. The journal itself is a gift from my son and is from his trip to Machu Picchu. It is a wonderfully hand-made leather book of empty white pages bound by a leather tie, that I, being left-handed, turn upside down to write on the pages from right to left. I’ve been adding entries periodically since last October.
At times I’ve thought that being in this house exacerbates the ongoing reminders of Pam missing out on our retirement years, of the emptiness I feel as the months go by without her, of the forfeiture of my hopes and dreams of our future together – of my future alone. I constantly change things around, rearrange the bedroom furniture, new linen and quilt, some of the wall hangings. I have changed the towels, mats, and shower curtain more than once in the last year, trying to change what was ours into what is now only mine. But I still get into an empty bed and wake up in the same. Getting into the shower, grab bars still in place, reminds me of Pam’s last year when she needed help with her intimate needs. The grab bars remain as an admission that I, too, am aging and admit the potential need for assistance, another reminder of having to make do on my own.
But it’s not the house, now my home. Reminders are everywhere. Go to a restaurant, a park, visit a friend, go bowling – which we enjoyed so much together. As I found out many years ago during my rebellious time as a youth, being happy, being “good” or “bad”, loving and hating , etc. are not dependent on location or one’s lot in life. Extricating myself from everything I know and have in life does not eliminate what is going on inside my head and heart.
Nearly seventeen months after Pam’s passing, I continue to live hour by hour, day by day. Some are better than others. And though I have few elated moments, I can still slip into despair that I cannot live up to what I think is worthy of Pam’s love and faith in me.
As she and I discussed, and I have mentioned before, I knew, and it has come to pass, that I am not the same person without her, not as “good” as I felt when bolstered by her love and presence in my life. Just this week my sister reminded me that Pam knew me, knew my weaknesses, knew my strengths, and loved me for who I am. Those things she saw in me are still part of me.
I believe this is why I am able to continue to get into an empty bed and wake up in the same. It is why I continue to reshape my surroundings to reflect who I am without her, still not understanding who that is. Yes. Grief is my relentless companion. But Pam’s love, the love and support of my family and friends, and my own will to live keep grief from having complete dominion over me.
On a lighter tack, as part of my process of carving out a new life without Pam, I recently attended a 55+ luncheon at the rec center. I’m pretty sure that at age 69, I was the youngest attendee. Lunch was catered and, I still can hardly believe it, I played Bingo after lunch and even won a round!
Two positive outcomes emerged as a result of my attending. A nice man named Frank took the initiative to sit with me during the luncheon. He recognized that I was new and graciously helped me feel less alone. He is twice widowed! Frank invited me to join a seniors bowling league, either bowling for at team, or as a sub. Three weeks ago I did just that, substituted for someone who could not bowl for their team. I bowled poorly, but I have always enjoyed bowling, and the challenge of being better at it than I am. I’ve now been there three weeks in a row and am known as a “regular” substitute available to anyone who cannot attend. My bowling has improved significantly since the first week and I look forward to subbing again next week. I’m getting familiar with some of the people there, have heard a few stories about their losses, and I am becoming familiar to them.
But this positive aspect of my new life is still tainted by my relentless companion. Pam and I used to enjoy bowling together with family and as members of church leagues. She was quite the bowler with the straightest delivery I have ever seen. Starting down the middle and barely wavering by a board! It is hard to avoid the guilt of enjoying bowling without her. An example of how life is changed and grief lingers.
In addition to my new social interactions, I received an email, through this web site address, wutjavia@gmail.com, from the 55+ luncheon coordinator, the only person attending who was clearly younger than I! I had given her my Wutjavia card after the event. It turns out that Bingo is not the only weekly luncheon entertainment. Guest speakers are invited to present, I suppose, just about anything, to the luncheon audience. She perused this site, read about my Glacier travels, and has asked me to present a travel log of my choosing to the group, inclusive of narrative and pictures. And though it won’t be delivered until sometime early next year, I enthusiastically agreed to do it.
One of the blessings of being with Pam was our mutual respect for the things we loved as individuals. She had her stamping and greeting cards. They were amazing outpourings of her love of people and of life. She attended conferences with her stamping friends, conducted online research, bought incredible tools, paper, and stencils, and created phenomenal works of art that she gave freely to others to honor special occasions, or just “thinking about you.” Sometimes she even asked for my advice on a design, or to hold paper or ribbon while she attached them to a card.
I had my travels (and my music), mostly to mountainous regions, camping and backpacking. With camera attached at the ready, I hoped to capture, as much as a picture can, amazing landscapes, vistas, and animals experienced along the way. And though she hated me being gone, and in potential danger, Pam encouraged me and supported me each year as I planned, either on my own or with my son, then departed on another adventure. She used to make “car treat” bags with anything from Pez candy to mini tissue packs, games and booklets. Anything she thought we might enjoy and laugh at as we drove many hours to our mountain destinations.
Now, though I am constantly reminded of what I have lost, I also remember what I/we had and can at least get a glimpse of a life that continues to evolve, with grief as my relentless companion.
The heat has broken. It finally feels like autumn, though still no rain here. It’s been two weeks since returning from Atlanta. Home alone reality is setting in. Pam passed away nearly sixteen months ago. Apparently, life goes on.
If there is a new normal, hopefully this isn’t it. To do lists have many checked boxes. Though there is more to be done before winter sets in. Daily routines are established, varying slightly from week to week for appointments and brief getaways. But the familiarity and comfort of established norms do not stave off the sadness and ache of missing Pam, nor the sorrow of her missing out on life. In some way, it seems the intensity has grown.
So much has been written describing grief, many pictures and animations. One such depiction arrived this week in a text message.
What to make of this? Where’s the fit? If the graphic is accurate, the message true, then some point along a continuum should be recognizable. But not. Life apparently goes on, but has yet to grow big enough to assuage the pain of loss. Conversely, if grief diminishes over time, apparently life must go on a long time before it begins to smother the grief. Either way, it’s a struggle to relate.
Sometimes anger wells up amidst the sadness and sorrow. How could she be taken away?! Were we not all the better for her presence in this life? Yes, we were! Yes, we are!
On the Other Hand
Better memories of Pam are emerging as time passes. Earlier pictures are reminders of happier times. Every one depicting the beautiful person she was, a beacon of kindness and compassion. One should hope to be such a person. Though she was so loving, and so loved, she was so much better than she ever thought she was. That, too, is part of her beauty.
So all is not just gloom and doom. Life cannot be all bad (though the news sources seem to differ) when such amazing people sojourn among us. We just have to recognize their positive contributions to our lives; enjoy their nature. Live to honor their lives. Live in hope that the circle will somehow, some day, grow to comfort us, to buffer us from the pain and sorrow of our grief.
Further Reflection
All of the above was written earlier in the week. Consideration was given to tossing it all out as being too depressing. But no. It stands as is. But said again, all is not just gloom and doom! Much enjoyment comes from the home we shared, now home alone. Much joy is felt when talking to and being with family and friends. Neighbors are friendly and encouraging. Autumn is a beautiful time of year in Iowa. And though it foreshadows winter, it also holds its own beauty for us to enjoy.
Now. Here’s the test. Can you figure out the missing word in this week’s post? You may post a comment in response. Or, if you would like to submit your guess privately, send a message at wutjavia@gmail.com.
Have a great week!!! Here’s hoping for happier topics as life go on.
Much as I want to share my experiences on other subjects, like Windmill Choreography, I cannot escape my feelings of emptiness and loss. Today they spilled out in some poetic form. I’ll work on travels and windmills, family and friends, beauty in life (and death), and other such things. But today I woke to a description of my current reality. And thus I share.
She Won't Be Back AgainFrom dreamless sleep I waken
But the nightmare continues
She won't be back again
The sun is shining
The breeze is blowing
But the nightmare continues
She won't be back again
I see her in her children
Grandchildren carry on
And the nightmare continues
She won't be back again
Talking to an empty room
The pain of her absence lingers
And the nightmare continues
She won't be back again
Looking at pictures of her
She smiling back at me
But the nightmare continues
She won't be back again
Laying down to slumber
Dim the lights, mute the sound
Dreamless sleep a solace
In the morning the nightmare resumes
She will never be back again
I continue to cry. So many reminders do me in. The world continues to turn. Its inhabitants go on with their lives. So many seemingly impactful events unfold every day. I am aware of them but they seem less important than my grieving. And though I still wear the grease-paint, “I hurt all the time deep inside.”
Next week I’ll have another opportunity to be more cheerful in my musings. One can hope! Until then, know that I continue to ride the wakeful waves of dreams and nightmares. I hope for good dreams and wakeful states for all of you this week and beyond.
If retailers can create sales called “Christmas in July”, I can call for “Thanksgiving in July?” Though it should probably be in June. I’ll chalk that up to artistic license.
Nearly two weeks past my gig in Clear Lake, I am still reeling from emptiness, sadness, and guilt. It is common for me to have a letdown after completing a challenging goal; that, combined with the spiral grieving process (though at times it feels more like a roller coaster!). Nor surprise that I am off.
I miss Pam intensely. I am sad that she is unable to watch her grandchildren grow into adulthood, she cannot watch Adalynn, our next door neighbor child, frolic on her new swing set, or to share times with family and friends, or go on the road with me. I feel guilty for moving forward with my life without her, even though I know in my mind that she would want me to.
Adalynn with BlueAdalynn the Princess
In the midst of this despair I found myself giving thanks for many of the same things I rue during loss. You may thank God, the universe, even your lucky stars. Regardless of attribute, it is enlightening and healthy to be thankful.
First and foremost, I am thankful for my family. Just being able to have relationships with siblings, daughters, sons, grandchildren, in-laws is worth many thanks. And thanks to them for – being. Each person is a gift full of gifts! I am thankful for their support, for believing in me, for their compassionate ears and encouraging words.
Pam and I were happily married for over 25 years, for which I am truly thankful. Being with Pam taught me about unconditional love, deep love, letting go love. I cannot imagine a better mate. I am forever changed for the better because of her.
I am thankful for my health. Sure. I have a few “getting older” issues, but how can I complain when I know so many with far worse ailments. So far, I am still able to do the things I love, like play guitar and sing, and walk and hike. I can drive my car (which I also enjoy), and eat and drink “normally.” Health is at the heart of maintaining good quality of life, for which we all strive.
A modest home in a friendly Iowa town. Living across the street from a park and a pond – with trout! Good neighbors. So much more to be thankful for.
Which leads to how I live. Always striving to live within my means. Thankful that I can afford the things I have and am able to share my gifts with others.
My music continues to be a sustaining force in my life. I am thankful for the gift of music, my ability to play, and create music and lyrics that are cathartic for me and convey messages that others can relate to. I am thankful for the people I’m meeting as I play. From those who pass on the streets and walks as I practice in my garage, to those who patiently listen at more formal venues. I am grateful to be able to share myself, as representing thoughts and emotions of others.
So much to be thankful for! Whether it’s June, July, or any other time of the year. When I’m feeling down and out, It’s good to recognize and articulate what I am thankful for. How about you?
P. S.
OMG Look what came in the mail this morning. Guess I’m not the only one. 😉 They say they can provide six meals for every dollar donated. North Liberty Community Pantry is a cause I contribute to often.
Tomorrow, I will fulfill a commitment I made a year ago to prepare my music and play in public, when I perform up to 24 original songs at the church where Pam and I met and married. I didn’t realize at the time, about a month after she died, that following through on a dream of performing publicly while traveling around Iowa and beyond, would become such an important part of my grief journey.
Pam and I loved to drive the back roads to towns and eating establishments. We hoped it would be a significant aspect of our retirement. Fun travels. And I would ask hosts and barkeeps if I might sit in a corner and play. With Pam’s passing, I decided to keep the dream alive.
I’ve been working/playing nearly every day for a year leading up to this point. Tomorrow is my debut. I’m not sure where I go from here, but I’m working on new goals like recording the rest of my current play list, as well as polishing another group of songs that have been on a back burner for years. Playing at open mics will help keep sharp what I have been working so hard to develop.
Attempting to share more of me through my music, I have updated my Songs page to include all of the songs from Catching Up on Life, recorded in 2013. Hopefully, that page will grow significantly over the next few weeks/months as I record more of my current repertoire.
This is a bittersweet occasion. So many memories, hopes, emotions, challenges, and now, fulfilment. My love, Pam, made this all possible. She listened (probably more than she wanted). She encouraged. She dreamed along with me. She allowed me to be me. Even in death Pam’s love for me, and mine for her, helped me get through the roughest times and begin to create a future for me, without her. A future that still includes her through memories and songs. Songs of love and affection about and to her.
I will play on. For Pam. For me. To share with all of you who might listen. I am humbled and hopeful.
Today, July 27th, is the 365th day of reading Healing After Loss by Martha W. Hickman. It is the “last” page for me since one can begin any day and continue for a year. I have been partaking of this ritual faithfully for the past year, even before my first cup of coffee, as I have wanted to get my head and heart around my feelings and the challenges of each day of grief and rebuilding my life.
Before opening the book today, I suggested to myself that it will be interesting to find out if it would contain something profoundly pertinent to this day, or only another encouraging message to help me get through the day, and the year. I am quoting the page in its entirety below:
The quote
Since her grief had brought her fully to birth and wakefulness in this world, an unstinting passion had moved in her, like a live stream flowing deep underground, by which she knew herself and others and the world.
Wendell Berry
The Message
It is a difficult birth – this coming into full wakefulness through grief – and not everyone comes out ennobled. But since the rewards of doing it well are as multitudinous as the stars in the sky, it behooves us to do whatever we can to come through well.
What may it take? Attention to our own needs, our state of mind. Reading. Rest. A willingness to be vulnerable again. Counseling, maybe. Talking with understanding friends. For some, prayer, meditation, participation in a healing community.
What we can be sure of is that we will be different. Whether we will be embittered and sad or compassionate and, in a deep sense, happy is not totally within our power to decide. But the outcome may be more within our power than we think. Like any birth, it has its pains and dangers. But it is new life at stake here – new life!
Marth W. Hickman
The Thought
I will use all the power I possess to come through this well.
Martha W. Hickman
This message encapsulates how I have spent all of my energy this past year (plus). These things I have done, in one form or another. I am confident that I will not be embittered but rather I feel renewed compassion for people, all of whom have their griefs and challenges to bear and come through. And though the pains and dangers still arise, I look forward to my new life, though a life without Pam, knowing she is always with me in my heart and that this is what she would want for me.
Thank you Martha Hickman (now deceased), for grounding me with your daily messages, walking with me along this arduous path through loss and grief. I am putting your book aside for now, knowing that it will be there any day of the year I need it as an anchor for my soul.
Pam’s 72nd Birthday is Tuesday, July 11th (I used to call it lucky 7/11). I am celebrating by playing my first “concert” at our home church in Northern Iowa on Sunday the 9th, a milestone in my commitment to Pam and me. It will be followed by a celebration for Pam’s Birthday with family. A celebration of Pam’s life. A celebration also of survival, of coming through.
But true, none-the-less. I was in the car for most of the week. It’s difficult to write while driving. Hopefully, I am gathering material for future posts along the way. Consequently, this will be a short post, what Pam used to call a “lick-and-a-promise” type of post (though she was referring to cleaning the house).
So I would like to take this opportunity to convey my thanks, once again, to all of you, my faithful followers, for your continued reading. But also for your continued positive feedback for my subject matter and my writing. Wut Javia, including my writing, sharing music, and other aspects of my life, has become an integral part of my grieving process. Not only is it an outlet for working through my thoughts and emotions, but a medium for honoring Pam’s life; the life of the most amazing, caring, and truly nice person I ever met.
Thank you. Without your participation and encouragement, this past year would surely have been a much darker, more difficult path to navigate.
My current travels exemplify the process of moving forward with life. With an eye on the past with Pam, I am purposefully opening myself to experiences that might become part of my new life without her. I know this is what she expected of me, hoped for me, and approves of. I hope that I can live the rest of my life in a manner that continues to honor hers.
Just before leaving, I turned to look at my living room and said, out loud, “I know you are not here anymore. But I am taking you with me.” I did smile.
This is part three of a three-part article being published on successive days beginning Saturday, May 20, 2023
The Bridge
The route to Pam’s bridge, as I like to call it, is familiar. Not only have I traveled it a couple times in the last year, but Pam and I had traveled the same route on the way to family reunions and visits in the past. With temperatures in the lower sixties and grey, somewhat foggy skies, the weather well suited my general disposition as I approached the family farm, and thus the bridge, on the gravel roads coming from the Northeast.
Though I’ve been to the bridge enough times to remember how to get there, I was further aided, especially in terms of distance and time, by my now well-functioning Google Maps. Even so, anticipation swelled as I approached. First, the tree line along the entrance road, the farm house, and some outbuildings. Then, turning west to see the winding creek and guardrails along each side of the rural gravel road.
Numb! No tears. No words. Just me, blankly staring into the water just as I did a year ago. I dropped a daisy branch and watched it float north, turning east and out of sight as it wound its way onto the family farm property. I tossed another, the only yellow daisy branch. To my surprise, it stuck in the mud next to the water looking as though it was planted and meant to be there. A thin ray of emotional sunshine.
I tossed a third branch and enjoyed the calm as it floated away and, once again, out of sight. I pictured how Pam’s ashes filled the stream as they, too, followed the same waterway to the north, then east into the farm. Just as she had wanted.
Three more branches. What should I do? I had wanted to bring living daisies to plant but was unsure whether they would make it even a year. So I decided to “plant” a branch at each end of the bridge’s guardrail. The ground was soft, and gravel loose enough from recent rain. Yeah. This is good!
Now I’m down to one daisy branch. But I’d been there only a little while, definitely not ready to leave! So I plucked each flower stem and slowly dropped each one in its own time into the water, watching as they floated northward. Still no tears; no words. But maybe a little more at peace with letting go, as I have the flowers. Moving on without Pam and yet having her with me all of the time, just not as either of us had wanted.
Alice’s Restaurant
No, not the one in Arlo Guthrie’s song. It is, as far as I can tell, the only restaurant in Creston, Nebraska. We held a luncheon there after the family memorial service at the family church last year.
I’d had no coffee nor anything substantial to eat yet, so I sat at the bar, ordered and enjoyed a burger, fries, and lots of coffee. There were few people there and I appreciated the solitude of the moment to reflect on my visit to the bridge. Now I wept. I wept for the finality of Pam’s passing. I wept for her not being with me to visit the people and places she cherished so. I wept that Alice didn’t remember that we’d even been there the previous year. It’s over. The deed is done. It’s time to go home.
Home Again, and Bad Weather
Yep. I was ready. I charted a backroad route only to find that it would take nearly seven hours to get home. That won’t do. It was only about five hours mostly on Interstate. An uneventful trip that had me home just around 5pm. No weather, no battles. Good to be home. Something to eat, and unload the car. Sorting and drying equipment would wait another day. This night I would try to come to grips with the emotional roller coaster of, well, the last few weeks, and the truncated camping weekend.
By now, I just had to know. Opening the weather app on my phone revealed the wisdom of my decision to pull up stakes that morning. Tornado warnings in eastern Nebraska on a direct path toward Louis and Clark State Park. As the evening unfolded, watches and warnings flooded the screen. Though there were no tornadoes reported in the area, it was clear that high winds, heavy rain, and hail marched through the campground slowly, taking a while to pass through where I would have been. Whew!
My brother-in-law sent me this picture taken near Freemont NE last Friday afternoon close to where I’d traveled. This is the same storm that proceeded NE toward L&CSP.
Less severe storms made it to my home in the overnight hours. I opened a window by the bed and listened to the thunder and rain, watched the lightening flash, and smelled the rain soaked air. Another reminder of things Pam and I enjoyed together.
It would take a couple more days for me to tether myself back in reality, grounded in what has become my daily routine of writing, walking, and playing my music. I have much to accomplish and personal and family events to look forward to. All a bit tainted by the vast emptiness that once was filled by Pam.
My notes for this post include the statement: “Passing of a significant day doesn’t make a significant difference.” Thinking about it now, I’m not so sure. A little more looking forward. A little less looking back. How weird are our lives?!
In case you missed them, back to part one or part two of this story.
