I’ve often compared  grief to the Godfather movie  trope with Michael Corleone’s famous line “Every time I think I’m out, they  keep pulling me back in!”

As the fifth year of my husband’s death approaches,, I’m reminded that it’s also akin to a phantom limb: no longer corporeal reality, but nevertheless painful and aching. That I sometimes continue to reach for him, or turn to speak to him. That  there’s still a stab in my heart, and  often the sting of tears. The curelty of his death never lessens, despite the fact the my life continues. I laugh, enjoy good food, have people who love me and care. I am reasonsbly comfortable and keenly aware of the good in my life every single day.

 I’ve  begun to explore the possibilities of dating (only because dear loved ones  pushed) and remind myself that I am indeed still alive and would like a relationship, but I’ll only consider widowers from long term marriages who have a clue and understand that any possible relationship will involve four of us, as the one guy I dated for a few weeks  sensitively and correctly acknowledged.

I can tell you honestly that until recently I begged and prayed for death, unable to comprehend how my beloved and I could exist in different realities/planes. How he could cease to exist at all and how I could exist without him. It made no sense and still makes me angry at times. That he didn’t get to enjoy our retirement and watch our granddaughter growing up. That he and our son didn’t get to build/repair things together in the garage. That he didn’t get to fully open up about Vietnam and the  other experiences he was finally starting to share…

I miss his face, his warmth, the fact that he sometimes giggled, was often silly, incredibly sweet, debonair, and sexy. I miss the way we’d dance around the house while doing chores, or when he wanted to lessen my annoyance with him. And yes, I even miss being annoyed by him and every other aspect of a long, genuinely loving relationship.  I loved that he continued to flirt with me for 37 years and always saw me as beautiful through his own beautifully hazel eyes of love.

I miss his smooth and surprisingly muscled skin and most of all, I miss being held by him, soothed by him, cajoled and reprimanded for my temper. I miss being completely,  fully, and well loved.

I’ve often thought about that saying “Tis better to have loved snd lost than never to have loved at all” and wondered if I think it’s true. The pain of losing a true and enduring love is insurmountable. But would I have done it all over again? Hell yeah.

A hundred thousand times over.

Yes