I have a scream deep within my soul. It takes all I have to hold it in. I behave normally most of the time. Or as normal as I possibly can because “normal” in the sense of the word is not the same for me. It is not as I once knew it to be. I have to — I need to — behave as if my normal hasn’t changed. But to be honest, most of the time I’m just faking it.
I am six months into Year Two and hits different. I survived Year One and all the big “firsts.” But this Year Two? I don’t know. I feel like I’m moving farther and farther away from him, leaving him behind. Making me wonder if I will forget his laugh, his touch, his voice, his smell. Life is existing for me, but not for him and that’s hard to grasp. If I let it, panic would set in when these realizations hit. But I know better not to allow that to happen.
I know there are some who think I should be over it. Who think I should move on. But I’m not sure how that is possible. How do you move on from a grief that is filled with love. Leaving behind a life that was meaningful and abundant. But I forgive them. They do not understand. They cannot possibly understand unless they themselves have felt a deep loss.
I cleaned our closet of his things. Even his shoes. His shoes hit me the hardest. They hold the imprint of his feet. His scent may be long gone but his shoes…it’s as if he’s still filling them.
I have them in a different closet down the hall so I can look at them when I feel inclined. You know, like when you purposely listen to a sad song. You seek it out. I sometimes wonder why that is and I believe it’s because we, the griever, just need a good cry. We need to feel in that moment.
I’m not ashamed. I embrace it like a warm hug from my guy, my love, the man who stole my heart thirty-seven years ago then died and left me a widow at the age of fifty-six. My sadness is just my love still existing. A love that will exist for the rest of my days.
I have been throwing around the phrase “reinventing myself” but I don’t like it much. “Reinventing myself” is about as welcome as a dead mouse in my wall but it has to be. My life is carrying on. Projecting forward. To paraphrase the widow in one of my favorite guilty pleasure shows — my heart will always have a hole in it but I am changing and growing around it.
And although grief is similar, it’s different for everyone. It’s personal. It’s my grief. Not a neighbor’s grief or a friend’s. It’s not a relative’s grief or a stranger’s. It’s mine.
And mine is silently screaming. All while I change.
Maureen Morin writes in substack.com