Memory Lane

Every once in a while I would pull out the old photo albums and look at the smiles from the past. It was a pleasant walk down memory lane on most occasions. I'd laugh as I looked at a particularly crazy photo of me or the kids or the husband. The changes that occurred in us over the time span of just a few years could be amazing. It always fascinated me to see such changes.

This trip down memory lane, however, was much more melancholy. As I struggle to get back to some sort of normalcy, I run across something that will trigger a happier time. Sometimes I close my eyes and hear my husband's voice as I stare into his Kodak eyes. The sound of his laughter is something that I've been without for about 5 years now. He had stopped laughing as often once the illness came about. I suppose he had little to laugh or smile about. I would tell him on occasion over the last 6-8 months that I missed him. He would look at me like I was crazy with an expression of "I'm here you know". But it wasn't really him. He had changed so much over the course of this illness that I would barely recognize him at times. I missed my old John. The one that laughed and joked and danced the "bugaloo" every once in a while. The one who endlessly talked while sitting in front of the TV at night. The one that snored ever so gently as he dreamed his little dreams over the years. That John was long gone. I had grieved him over the last 6 years many times over. Yet, I find myself crying now because his physical presence is gone. I realized, for the first time, that just having him here, no matter his condition, was enough to appease me.

Sad that after a life well lived, all that was you can fit into a cardboard box or a plastic garbage bag. I'm slowly cleaning out his stuff and with each step, he disappears a little more. So I cry. I smell his clothes and hats hoping just to get a whiff of him. No luck with the clothes. The hat carries his smell. His essence. I deep breathe it in. AAAAAHHHHHH....JOHN! I cry. I still have to do all the legal things, remove him from the mortgage, from the deed to the house, from the car, from the bank account, etc. With each step, he'll disappear. I feel like I'm erasing him from the earth. Pretty soon, no one but his family and I will even remember he was here. I want to hold onto him so badly. Feel his touch, see his face, kiss his forehead, run my fingers through his hair and tell him that I love him. I know that he hears my cries and wishes that he could help.

Sometimes memory lane can be painful. Sometimes it can be therapeutic. Sometimes it serves as a reminder as to just how much we've lost. Sometimes it reminds us of just how much we were blessed along the way.