The End

 I’m writing again.

This isn’t the kind of writing I thought I’d be doing. I have two novels in the oven, another blog with an ongoing story I haven’t finished, and files of blog ideas I thought I’d be immersed in while I stared out at our forested backyard hoping for a glimpse of a skittish deer. Instead, I’m journaling the pain of living without you in my life anymore. I’m crushed by the good memories of adventures and loving and laughing that will always be all I have left of you. And I suffer at the thought that I took you for granted and wasted too many opportunities to make you feel loved and cherished because I was distracted by things like writing books and blogs.

Regret is a terrible substitute for being with the one you love.

You were my person. My confidant. My muse. You drove me from one side of America to the other, helping me search out records of my ancestors so I could weave all their facts together into a book. Partially written, ignored in a box, it sits patiently now, waiting for editing and completion. But you’re not here to help me figure out the ending.

It sounds a lot like us.

I don’t understand our ending either. I’ve tried, but you’re not here to help me make sense out of it. Every time I got stuck in a scene in one of my novels, I ran the problem by you, and you and that creative brain of yours offered up solutions. You may have felt neglected by my writing passion, but you were always ready to be a sounding board when I needed you. Of course, I promised to give you full credit on the dedication page, but I don’t think that flimsy shot at fame was your motivation. We had fun together figuring things out. Talking them through. Coming up with solutions.

I’m not having fun anymore. I have no solutions. I don’t know what I’m doing.

My birthday will be here in a few weeks, the first I’ll have ever celebrated without you here beside me. I’ll have other family around me, but I’ve already warned them I’m not much fun right now. There’s not much to celebrate. Katy’s had a couple of rough birthdays in her life, too—once because they could only schedule your heart surgery on that date, and now because she’s in mourning for her dad. She joked this month that she was moving her birthday to some other place on the calendar, and I’m considering doing the same thing.

I was thinking I’d move it to 2045. I might be more fun by then.

I’ve journaled some hard things lately on the autobiography I casually call my blog. I’ve made people cry with this walk through grief, maybe because we’re all grieving over you. I’m not trying to cause tears. It’s just that putting my soul on paper so I can see it is one way I can look at what’s going on inside me and sort it all out. My heart feels scrambled up right now, with every conceivable emotion churning around inside. Angry feelings, hopeless thoughts, shocked disbelief, and crippling explanations are interwoven with sorrow, hurt, and confusion.

But even though I write it down, when I lay it all out in front of me, it makes as much sense as a table full of puzzle pieces without the box. I have no idea how this deconstructed picture will ever come together again or what it will look like when it finally does. You were always better at jigsaw puzzles than me, too. And now you live in a unique place where you know what this one represents but you can’t tell me what you’ve discovered. That’s not fair.

Nothing about this is fair.

It’s not logical. Or merciful. Or better for anyone but you. I’m sorry. That sounds horrible. But I’ve read about heaven. No one who gets a glimpse of it ever wants to come back here. I don’t blame you for preferring it there. I’m just still upset that you didn’t take me with you—like you had any say in that.

Oh, I’m probably just having a pity party, which isn’t as much fun as it sounds. Like I said, I’m not having fun right now. I’m just typing a lot. Crying a lot. Missing you—a lot. A lot a lot. Remember how you used to say that? I miss all the things you used to say. And do. And share with me. I miss sharing life with you, Baby, even when we shared it imperfectly.

But, hey, at least I’m writing again. Tearing up the keyboard with questions that have no answers, plots that have no endings, and memories that make us all cry. I have the whole confusing story written down, interspersed with vivid word pictures and emotional connections. What I don’t have is an ending that makes sense.

Because, right now, life without you in it doesn’t make any sense.