Friday, April 30, 2021

It's Going To Be A Long Weekend

I awoke to see a glorious morning outside my bedroom window. Light fog drifting across the pasture. Fairy wash clinging to seedpods of taller plants. Grass and flowers glistening in their coating of morning dew. Sunrise visible beyond the trees and hills surrounding the pasture. Small clouds glowing with reflected sunlight.

On my way to town I was thanking God for the wonderful morning scenery along the way, and my thoughts turned to Greg. His smile. His touch. His laughter. His everything. My everything.

Tears have been my companion since.

I felt lighthearted for the first morning this week when I got out of bed. I was enjoying the morning’s peace and charm. I wish I knew why pleasant thoughts of Greg hit me so hard. I know I will always love him and miss him, that will be a constant in my life. But this? 

How can grief be so inexplicable? I know grief will never go away, that is a given. I am having trouble understanding the suddenness of its arrival in the midst of a morning with so much beauty, a beauty that lifted my spirits more than they were when I first awoke. 

Is grief inexplicable? Is its sole intent and purpose to keep me from having happy days, where pleasant thoughts of Greg bring smiles instead of tears? It seems that way to me. Makes me feel as if grief has a personal vendetta against me and desires to keep me in tears instead of smiles for as long as it possibly can.

If this morning is any indicator of how my weekend will be, I have a long three days ahead of me. I will get out and do something somewhere else tomorrow and Sunday. Today I need to mow the yard so driving aimlessly this afternoon isn’t an option I can utilize today as I have so many times this year. 

All I can do at the moment is endure and hope for fewer grief-riddled days in the years to come. 

I may be sad. I may cry. I must be strong.


Thursday, April 29, 2021

Healing Silence

God’s silence.

Songbirds are singing merrily. A lone cricket chirps in high grass. Tree branches and wildflowers sway in the light breeze but the trees nearby haven’t leafed out enough for the leaves to rustle in the breeze. I can occasionally hear the roar of the wind at higher altitudes.

The fine mist is accumulating on the new leaves and there are sporadic plonks on the roof of the Explorer when a leaf tilts downward and releases a drop of rain.

A lone Ford pickup truck breaks the silence but the hiss of its tires on wet pavement is soon gone.

I am sitting in a pull-off near Crocus Creek, but not close enough to the creek to hear the music of running water. I come here frequently because of the silence. No traffic noise. No voices to be heard. No radios or sirens disrupting the peace. God’s peace.

Today I need this peace. Cleaning, sorting, finding memories of Greg -- notes he had written, his work clipboard holding samples of some of the last things he printed, a tedious printed piece he had been proud of -- all combined to bring tears.

Tears that dampened the day as much as the intermittent rain outside the shop. I am not in the depths of grief that I have endured in the past few months, but felt that it wouldn’t take much to push me over that edge. So I drove to this silent spot.

I am sad, for my darling Greg is no longer in my life. The silent peace has leveled out my emotions so that the threat of tears isn’t as imminent as it was an hour ago.

The greens of Spring, the touch of the breeze, even the cawing of distant crows contribute to my peace.

I miss Greg more than I can ever say, my heart aches from his loss, and I know there will be many more times that I will experience grief so wrenching that I won’t know if I will survive it.

Today God’s silence has restored peace to my day, brought me away from tears for the moment, while I listen to the patter of a lively Spring rain that just now started. 

I will seek this silent peace many times in the years to come.

Old Habits

Throughout our lives, we acquire habits that we sometimes don’t realize we have until there is a drastic change in our lives. Since Greg’s death, I have discovered I have several old habits, all tied to Greg.

Perhaps the one I notice most often is catching myself listening for the sound of Greg’s truck coming down the driveway on a Saturday afternoon. When Greg returned home on a Saturday afternoon after golfing or gun trading, we usually went out to eat or riding around, most likely both.

I didn’t realize how many times a day I was in and out the back door at the shop and didn’t have to unlock it each time because Greg was at work, waiting for me to return with lunch or snacks, or just so he could leave for the day.

“Give me a hug,” one of us would say in the midst of a rough day. A hug to relieve our burdens and make them disappear for a few moments.

“Leave me alone,” I would tell Greg in the mornings when he got out of the shower, wide awake and ready to take on the day. I am NOT a morning person.

There are dozens of other habits. Tuesday afternoon I sat at Greg’s grave and talked to him about these habits, including the ones of his that I am taking on myself, like checking the doors at work three or four times before I leave for the day.

Old habits. Good and bad. They are threaded through the days of our lives.

One habit I will never give up -- loving Greg.

Wednesday, April 28, 2021

Boxing Up Our Life

On the corner of the desk in the office is a #10 envelope box. It is approximately 9.75”x12”x4.25”. In the box are business records for 2020. The box is perhaps three-fourths filled.

Greg and I officially closed the business in May of 2019 when he was diagnosed with cancer. I still do odds and ends of small jobs for long-time customers. That envelope box brings memories of busier times when a year’s business records barely fit into a 11”x17”x10” box; sometimes the records required a larger box.

Business records aren’t the only things I have boxed since August 2019. I have boxed up shotgun shells, books, coon hunting trophies, knives, dishes, photographs, and many other items. Some things were easy to box. Others brought tears and it was all I could do to place those items in a box and seal it. Some of the things I gave away, most are still in my possession.

In the process of boxing up our life, I wondered . . . is this what we all come to? Items in a box that our descendants may discard without realizing what memories reside within those boxes.

There are still hundreds of things that I should box. I will at some point. Right now there are many items I cannot bear to stow away. Wildlife prints. Shot glasses. Golf instruction videos. A&W mugs, Carhartt T-shirts.

I have boxes. I have time. I do not have the desire to box away all the memories of the life I shared with Greg. They are too precious to me.

The empty boxes can wait.

Monday, April 26, 2021

Tomorrow Through Yesterday

I’ve always liked music, just about any genre. Although music has always affected my emotions, it hadn’t had a huge impact on them until after Greg’s death. Now, the least bit of any music, sad or joyful, can bring me to tears.

Yesterday, for some inexplicable reason, I was thinking about Air Supply’s “I Can Wait Forever.” I looked up the lyrics and listened to the song. At the side of the screen was a listing of other Air Supply songs. One was “Here I Am.” I’m not familiar with their music so I looked at those lyrics also.

Two very different songs -- one of love that could be consummated tomorrow, one of a love from yesterday.

Both songs made me melancholy, caused me to think about my yesterdays and tomorrows.

All my yesterdays that will be there through all my tomorrows. All my yesterdays that will shape how I view all my tomorrows.

All my yesterdays. All my tomorrows. Can I wait forever to see my tomorrows move away from grief? Can I see my tomorrows without viewing them through my yesterdays? Can I live my tomorrows without feeling I am betraying my yesterdays?

Questions I cannot answer. I don’t know if there are answers.

Here I am. Memories aplenty. Missing Greg. Grief at bay for the day.

I will wait for new tomorrows. Hopefully not forever.

Sunday, April 25, 2021

Forty-Year-Old Curtains

I shouldn’t tell this on myself but anyone who knows me knows that on a list of a million things I might like to do, housekeeping is at the very bottom. I despise doing housework.

Today, I’ve done what needed done the worst because it was getting on my nerves. In the process, I looked out the kitchen window several times, admiring the dogwoods still in bloom and the new leaves on the trees in the woods behind the house. I thanked God several times throughout the day for the beautiful day He sent.

And I looked at the kitchen curtains. They are in desperate need of replacement. The hems are unraveling as are the rod pockets so instead of the curtains hanging on the rods straight, they are at an angle because I have draped them over the rods. There are rips and holes caused by cats attacking the curtains through the years. This is not something new -- the curtains have been this way for at least twenty years.

I had bought a red-checked tablecloth that Greg liked. We were in Kmart not long afterward and I saw some white curtains with a little red vine embroidered in the corners. I put the appropriate pieces in the cart and when Greg saw them he threw a fit, saying he didn’t want any damn vines in the house.

So, I put the curtains back and have never replaced what I bought from Greg’s cousin when we bought our double-wide trailer in 1987. She had had the curtains for a few years before she sold them to me.

Even though Greg throwing a fit hurt my feelings at the time, later I got peeved and my stubbornness took over. While I have looked for new curtains a few times since, none have suited me like the ones with the red vines. Once in a while Greg would say something about the curtains needing to be replaced. I either ignored him or said, “I know it.”

I miss times like that, even though they aren’t what could be called happy memories. Greg and I were together, sharing a life and all the ups and downs that occur. One more day with Greg, even if we spent half of it fussing with each other, would be welcome.

Tomorrow is my birthday. Will I gift myself new kitchen curtains? Probably not.

Ragged memories are better than no memories.

Saturday, April 24, 2021

Music in the Rain

A plunk. A plonk. A rat-a-tat-tat. A roar.

I sit in the Explorer and listen to the different rhythms, the different melodies, sorting through the different emotions rain brings to the surface. I watch raindrops land on the windshield, watch them pause, descend, combine into rivulets striping the glass. Some hold their positions, awaiting fresh drops to nudge them downward.

My emotions are as varied as the irregularity of the rain’s descent. At this moment they are calm. I have no idea how they will be ten minutes from now.

Travis Tritt is on the stereo, singing “I Can’t Seem to Get Over You.” For me, it is “I will never get over you,” for Greg is so much a part of me that I don’t believe I will ever get over him. Next on my mix is “Nothing Short of Dying.” I don’t know if Travis realized just how correct “that’s worse than being left alone” really is.

I threw some Bocephus in this mix -- “Old Habits.” Habits that have been with me for two-thirds of my life, embedded in my heart, may never disappear. Habits like listening for Greg’s truck coming down the driveway mid-afternoon on a Saturday. Awaiting his arrival home after a day of deer hunting, worrying if he’s not home soon after dark falls. Millions of little habits. Millions of memories that I will always have deep in my spirit.

The rain has become a light mist, making it easier to see what is around me, and I sit quietly, letting God’s handiwork soothe my soul. If the temperature was a few degrees warmer, I would enjoy walking in this mist until it soaked through my clothing.

That is something that Greg did not enjoy -- walking in the rain. I wonder if there is anyone who would enjoy walking in the rain with me.

Perchance, some rainy day, I may know.


Empty File Folders

I’ve worked off and on this past week cleaning out the filing cabinets in the office. Some things I have shredded, some I have trashed, and some I have kept. In the process, I have accumulated at least two hundred empty file folders. Perhaps twenty-five to thirty of these I have refilled with personal information.

As I leafed through the contents of these folders, I remembered the customers, their printing needs, and how Greg and I dealt with each. Most of our customers we really liked to deal with, but there were a few, that if we saw them coming, we headed out the back door, leaving our executive secretary to deal with them on her own. She would ask me later, “You saw them coming, didn’t you?”

I also remembered the long hours at work, the frequent fights Greg and I had because of stress, the lengthy drives made delivering work out-of-state, and many miles driven in-state when delivering printed items. Greg and I traveled roughly a million miles during our time together, rain and shine, on snowy roads and dry pavement, sometimes talking the entire way, other times nothing would be said except, “Where do you want to eat?”

We shared it all, endured it all, all the way to the end.

Today on my travels, the passenger seat was empty, as empty as those file folders I have boxed away. The memories of all the good times, the bad times, the happy times and the sad times are filed away in my heart, enclosed in folders made of love that will endure through the ages. I will dip into those folders many times in the years to come, remembering all that Greg and I shared, weeping over some memories, smiling and laughing at others.

No matter if I laugh or cry, Greg will never be in my life again. I feel his loss daily. I don’t think I will ever stop missing his presence, his love for me.

Will I ever add new file folders to my heart? Most likely not, as those folders of love in my heart have no expiration date, no room for updated versions.

File me under “Loving Greg.”


Friday, April 23, 2021

Alone In A Bar

Almost. There is one other customer. He’s at the bar and I’m at a table. I did learn that he is a Travis Tritt fan.

I’ve had an enigmatic week. While overall I’ve felt at peace, I’ve cried nearly every day, off and on during the day. I can’t determine how many of the tears are caused by grief, how many are caused by missing Greg so much, nor how many are caused by loneliness.

Most likely, the awareness of just how alone I am has caught up with me. I’ve never had a lot of friends nor socialized a lot. I’m an only child. None of my relatives live nearby so I’m not close to family members.

Greg was also an only child, but he enjoyed socializing much more than I do. After we were married a few years, we basically stopped socializing. We wrapped ourselves in our love and became Greg and Joyce, united and inseparable.

Perhaps that was an error on my part. If I hadn’t avoided socializing as if it was a contagious disease, maybe I wouldn’t be so alone at this point in my life.

I’ve been thinking this week about how many people are gone from my life, never to return. Of my few friends, some do not live nearby. Others have so much to deal with in their lives on a daily basis that I feel I am disrupting their busy schedules if I call to chat for a few minutes.

So, I sit alone in a bar. I will be alone on my drive home. I will be alone when I arrive home.

Without my Greg. Without my anchor.

Alone in my life.

Saturday, April 17, 2021

Grief Strikes Again

Yesterday, while I was waiting to see my opthamologist, I was about to the end of a book that I’d been reading a bit at a time during the week. It’s a fun book, Gators and Garters, with plenty of funny scenes and some serious scenes. When I got to the part about a wedding, grief struck again with the title of a song. 

I don’t remember ever hearing the song before -- “The Dance” by Garth Brooks -- except maybe in bits and pieces if it was playing in a store where I was shopping. I didn’t know the words, but looked them up when I got back to the shop. It is not a song that I would consider playing at a wedding. 

I knew that music would allow grief to overwhelm me at times but I never expected that just seeing the title of a song in print would do the same, especially a song I was not familiar with.

Once again I mourned the loss of Greg. Once again I wondered if the grief will ever ease. Once again I wondered why 2021 has hit me so hard.

Why this year? Is it the way we say it? Twenty twenty-one, the numbers in the correct sequence. This happens only once in a century. Was that the trigger on January 1, 2021, of the many days and nights of unrelenting grief I have had since? Is the calendar letting me know that there is no next step for me?

No tomorrows with Greg. No next weeks. No next months. No next years. 

No more hearing Greg sing. No more seeing his smile. No more of his wonderful hugs.

No more love in my life. No more hope for there ever being love in my life again.

I don’t know what this year will bring into my life. I do know that days like yesterday, that leave me exhausted emotionally and physically, are not days I wish to repeat. 

I am ready for a step away from grief.


Sunday, April 11, 2021

Blossoms and Breezes

It’s a nice day today. Sunny, warm, bright with blossoms of Spring. 

Blossoms that remind me of Greg. Oh, he wasn’t a fan of flowers, but there are two he did like – violets and wild strawberries. 

Greg liked the dark purple blooms of the violets. I’m not sure why he liked the yellow blooms of the strawberries, other than the plants do not get very tall. When I would mow areas of the yard that had wild strawberries in bloom, he would ask if the blooms were still there when I finished. The strawberries were usually short enough that the mower left the yellow blossoms to brighten the yard.

Our yard is liberally dotted with violet and wild strawberry blooms today. It appears that the two plants are vying for dominance. In spots the violets are winning, in other spots the strawberries.

A stiff breeze that is more related to March than April jostles the blossoms. A breeze that would have given Greg an earache, and caused him to stay indoors. 

Reminders, more reminders of what I have lost and will never have again. A good man and his love, neither of which can be replaced, no matter what I do.

I am alone with grief.

Saturday, April 10, 2021

Rainy Days and Memories

The temperature outdoors is in my comfort zone -- sixty to sixty-five degrees. It’s been raining since this morning so I’ve been outside only to check the mail.

I’ve cried through washing a load of clothes, cooking breakfast, baking brownies, listening to Travis Tritt’s Homegrown album, petting the cats . . . it’s been a rough day. Since the rain hasn’t decided to stop, I’ve been driving most of the afternoon, watching the wipers clear the windshield.

Memories surround me. Some good, some bad, some happy, some sad. I’ve got a tight grip on my emotions so haven’t cried for an hour or so, but feel it would take very little to break that grip. What then? Tears for the rest of the day and night and tomorrow?

A friend said it was from missing Greg, from feeling empty. I know I’m missing Greg -- that is likely a permanent condition. The feeling of emptiness -- I feel past that -- empty would be an improvement.

I feel nonexistent, as though nothing I do will bring me back into existence. Will this feeling pass? Can I defeat it? Right now, I doubt it. Tomorrow? Will there be rain bringing more memories to remind me of what I no longer have? Memories of what I can never have again? Memories . . . memories that reside in my bones.

Another road to follow in the rain. Another hundred miles on the odometer. Another two hours of tears matching the rain. Another day grief has me firmly in its clutches.

Will another million miles in the rain dilute the memories?

Friday, April 9, 2021

Another Round

Grief is relentless. Over the past couple of weeks, I felt as though some of the worst was on its way out. This morning grief told me in no uncertain terms just how wrong I am.

It told me there is no hope, no relief, no way to move forward, no reason – good nor bad – to think anything will ever change, that it is a permanent resident in my life and has no intention of ever moving out.

The pain and tears today lack the intensity of what I’ve endured the past several months. Instead, they contain a bone-deep despondency that I fear will loiter for the rest of my days. How do I cope with this?

A beautiful drive lacked the power to lift grief’s grip on my day. Redbuds spoke of the soft sweetness of Spring. Wild mustard glowed in the gentle sunlight.  Broom sedge held the color of Fall as a reminder of the cycles of life. God’s beauty brought some peace to my heart but grief prodded my memory, bringing to the forefront Greg’s appreciation of God’s handiwork, and that I’ll never again share a beautiful Spring drive with Greg. Forcing me to acknowledge that I know I will never again share any part of my life with Greg.

So, I’ll back off on hope for a bit. Back off on doing things that strongly remind me of Greg, like a drive down scenic roads on a pleasant Spring day. Back off on considering the remote possibility of ever having another relationship. Regroup and start over on a life by myself.

I can survive this. I may not be happy. I may be lonely. I will yearn for all the little things that made up our life together.

In the end, I will survive, for I am strong enough.

Sunday, April 4, 2021

Weekend Notes

Thoughts on Hope

Some days, when submerged in the abyss of grief, wanting my past, I wonder if hope exists at a higher depth. Hope for a new tomorrow where I can skim the surface of grief, knowing that it will always be an undercurrent in my life, hoping that I will not encounter a strong undertow that drowns today in relentless sorrow.

If I do encounter hope, what do I hope for? Financial security to enable me to indulge in some nearly-forgotten dreams? Good health and mental acuity for the rest of my life? (That is always hoped for.) A new love?

And that makes me wonder even more about hope. If I hope for a new love, am I truly wanting a new love or a distraction from my grief? If the chance for a new love appears, will I recognize it and move away from the life I shared with Greg?

Questions. Always questions. My life is filled with questions, even if I never disclose them. My expressed questions have caused some people to tell me I have no confidence in myself, in my capabilities, or in the possibilities of my life changing. Maybe I do lack the confidence I need, but even if I had it, I would still question everything.

Today, sitting outside on a glorious Easter Sunday that God has provided, I see no possibility of a new love in my life. The odds are against it, the opportunities too few.

While I am sad today, grief hasn’t overtaken my emotions and wrecked my mood. I can hear turkeys gobbling, birds singing their happy songs, and the buzzing of wood borers. The grass is green, an assortment of flowers and trees are blooming, and a clear sky is a pleasing backdrop for the woodland in front of me.

Even though I am sad, I am at peace.


From Writing to Ashes

A friend has told me several times through the years that if something is bothering me to write about it, then burn what I write. Since grief has had a stranglehold on my emotions since the first of this year, a couple of weeks ago I decided to try her suggestion.

I have written about grief, heartache, frustration, anger, grief, happy times and sad times, beliefs, grief, love, sorrow and how I may feel tomorrow. I have written letters to people to whom I cannot divulge my feelings, and I have written letters to God.

Some of the thoughts were difficult to put down on paper. Some of the thoughts flowed freely, and even though I frequently mangled sentence structure, I did get on paper how I felt about many things that I could never mention to anyone. 

Apparently, this is helping me deal with grief, as after burning the third or fourth set of letters, I arose the next morning feeling lighter in spirit and mood. 

Since starting writing and burning what I have written, there have been a few times I have cried, like Friday, which would have been Greg’s sixty-third birthday. I was singing “We’ve Had It All” and there is so much in that song that relates to the life Greg and I shared, that the tears came unexpectedly. However, songs that a month ago brought me to tears every time I listened to them I can now listen to and sing along, and smile about happy times with Greg.

I will write more letters tonight, and for many nights to come. I need to get past the grief and let a new day dawn in my life.