Sara Evans sings, “There’s no place that far”. She is
incorrect, for there IS a place too far – for me, at least at this time. Wife
died over two years ago, and I miss her every day. For a year – no, more (this week?) - I found
(find) myself contemplating ways to join her. Members of my family keet telling
me that I need to stay. Perhaps they are starting to make sense; perhaps not.
What do I miss about Wife? Let me count. No, there are too
many. I miss her. Period. I keep seeing pictures of her from her childhood;
teen years, school years; professional career; as an aunt, sister, parent; grandparent. Posing; just natural; smiling; solemn; in pain.
Natural hair; wig; scarf; hat. (Seven years of chemotherapy will do that.)
Perhaps she had to go. I’ve been told so. But, somewhere,
deep inside, I continue to believe that there had to be a way she could have
stayed.
But, I plan to keep slogging through the days, the weeks, and now,
the years, until I find that far place. Perhaps she will remember me, and will be
the first to greet me when I cross that river. I can hope, can I not?
