How Much for Your Truck?

Today was a day I wanted to ramble the roads. I decided to drive Greg’s truck because it was a beautiful day. I headed for Somerset, taking my time, driving under the speed limit, admiring God’s handiwork in the trees donning their fall colors.

The drive was pleasant, the onion rings at Reno’s done nicely, I did some writing, and overall was having a good day.

As I was leaving, a gentleman driving a Ford truck stopped and asked me what year Greg’s truck is. I told him, and he was even more interested in the truck when I told him that, yes, it is a stick. I believe he would’ve taken the truck with him right then as he told me several times that the trailer he was pulling would hold the truck; it would’ve.

Then he asked the question. The question for which I have only one answer: A time machine so that I can spend another forty-two years with Greg. Forty-two years that went past much too quickly.

The past two weeks have been mostly leveled-out for me. I’ve had a few days with tears frequently throughout the day, but the tears were more from an overall sadness than grief. The tears this afternoon are those of the bone-deep grief that will leave me emotionally exhausted.

I know grief isn’t ever going away. I know I will shed more tears in the years to come. I did not expect that anything, good or bad, could so quickly plunge me into the depths of grief at any moment, no matter what is going on nor how good my mood. 

Going from a day running pleasantly, with thoughts of Greg always with me, to feeling grief so strongly is jarring. It keeps my emotions off-balance, making me wonder if anything is worth the effort, if the future worth thinking about.

I don’t know the answer. If there is one. Perhaps someday I will find a semblance of an answer.

I must be strong until then.

Are You Looking for Someone?

An innocuous question from a pastor of a local church; I could not answer him for I would have started crying. The pastor was just in the spirit of the day – annual festival – and I was slowly walking around downtown. I guess he did think I was looking for someone.

The someone I would be looking for is no longer on this earth. I have missed Greg terribly this week, starting last Saturday. I have managed a day or two without tears by the time I got to town in the mornings, but some little thing would bring them at most any time.

Five or six young deer in the neighbor’s cornfield two afternoons ago. A heron flying up from the swamp when I went home at lunch today. One little deer at the corner of our trees by the cemetery road this morning. Cardinals swooping across the road as I drove up the hill from our driveway. A piece of chipboard on which Greg had written “Peggy’s pattern.” Making notepads, which are nowhere as neat as Greg could make them; I hope the customer understands.

And the really hard one this evening . . . sitting in the shop, listening to a band play on the square. Greg would have been out in the crowd, talking to everyone he knew, listening to the music, occasionally coming back to the shop to check on me and tell me who all he had talked to. This is Friday night. I will be here tomorrow night, listening to a different group of musicians and missing Greg with all my being.

I know tomorrow and Sunday will be hard. Tomorrow I will be in the shop from morning until after the evening music is over, remembering all the times Greg and I hung around here when there were events downtown, and how much he enjoyed listening to the music. Sunday I will sleep in and awake without Greg in my life. 

I never expected the grief and the heartache to go away. I know both will always be with me. I did think that I could manage to put some distance between me and the tears, to less frequently be crying, even over memories of happy times; actually those bring the most tears.

Yes, I am looking for someone. Someone I will never find again. My Greg.