Death Means Never Again!
Essay # 1
“Never again will I hear your voice.”
Oh, Sandra, how I miss hearing that window open, you yelling some gardening directions. For 47 years we worked the ground side-by-side. When you became unable to care for your ‘girls’ (flowers), you could still direct. And direct you did. Now, when I am outside in the gardens, I often look at that back window, then close my eyes, asking God to hear, “No! No! That is too much.” Or “Time to quit! You have been out there too long.”
I know. I know…never again will I hear your voice. When my mind is not occupied, that haunts me. With every breath. After dinner, we would sit on the patio and look at the beauty, beauty you created. Sharing. The thrill of seeing a Cardinal grab a peanut from the wall and hearing you say, ‘Look! Look! Did you see him? He’s taking it home to his wife.” “Oh, look, over there, that's a Monarch butterfly on the zinnia!” Never again.
Even when we argued for so long, we forgot what started the argument. Oh, how I want to argue again. But I know ... not in this life.
“Death means never again!” I have so many "Never agains."
Yes, out loud, I talk with you every day, asking, "Am I doing it right?” Or, “Where is that damn recipe? Please send me a sign” Every time I leave our home, I go through our routine. When I return, I always yell, “I’m home!” Pausing, to hear a reply, that familiar reply. Oh, how I need your advice. When our truck was destroyed, I had so many decisions to make. I would ask…and never hear your voice. I can imagine…but it is not the same. It never will be. I know, never in this life will we have a conversation. Talking about the day. Enjoying a nice meal and a glass of wine (or two for me)…those times, remain a memory, but for how long?
Thinking back, after 42 straight days in the hospital, I knew I had to bring you home. We knew it was only a matter of weeks, if not days, although it was never spoken. You saw your gardens, our Christmas tree, and home for one last time. We talked until you could not talk any more. I continued to talk, and you responded with your eyes. I will always be haubted with, ‘What were you thinking?” You drew your last breath, in the home you worked so hard to make ‘just right.’ Oh precious, life now is not living. Just existing. Dark places and thoughts are inside...always.
By now, you are aware of what I did for months, without you knowing.
You would have not approved, I know that. But I did it anyway. Sandra, IYes, I secetly recored our conversations.j Oh precious, I was terrifiec I would forget the sound of your voice. Sometimes it was in my pocket, behind your pillow, on the steps, in the library. I just wanted it to be natural: We laughed. I cried at times, and you said, “Don’t cry, I will be ok.” We talked about cooking and gardening. What I needed to buy at the grocery store. Just life. But not the future. The future had one certainity, followed by uncertainity.
I was so afraid. I knew death was close and I knew death meant we would never again talk. Today, those conversations are at my fingertips, and they cause me so much pain, but at the same time, much joy…perhaps painful joy. In the quietness of the evening, I say, “I just can’t. Not tonight.” Then at other times I just listen to random recordings – pain and joy.
When I get tired of walking around the house and yard talking to you loudly...you never answer, I remember those recordings. Yeah, maybe tonight, when I am in our gardens, or sitting on the front porch … I might find the strength to listen to a few of our last conversations…praying I always remember it is 'your' voice. And, I will remember a little of how things were! Always asking for your forgiveness.
Remember, I love you more more!
Well friends, that is it for Essay # 1.
(Keep scrolling)
To those who have lost someone you loved deeply, please share your thoughts. Your thoughts will help me and perhaps others who are reading and thinking.
If you are a fortunate one, at our age, and are still with the one you love, go back and read my story. Give it some thought. It may be unsettling, or maybe comforting. That is for you to decide. However, the reality is, all too soon, “One of you will be me.” I will never be able to put it into words how it feels to be “One” after 56 years. However, I hope to continue to share my feelings in “Death Means Never Again.” There are so many ‘Never’s.’
For me, writing keeps her alive.
"Maison de Jardin"
Mike