Counting the DaysTomorrow it will be eight months since my husband's death and the end of the life we had planned together. It's amazing that it has gone by so quickly, since each day feels so bleak and endless.
I seem to have moved into a new phase of grief; widowhood--never a dull moment, huh? Up to this point, I've mostly missed the sick man whose final years I shared, and focused on the memories (and there are many, many happy ones) of the time we spent living with his illness. His wit and self-deprecating humor meant that even the bleakest setbacks were rendered ludicrous and even funny at times.
This past weekend, I saw a man at the public pool who reminded me in no very literal way of my husband as he was Before—finely built, with a slender frame, slim but well-defined arms, pale skin and hair so dark it was nearly black. This man was paddling a small child around with him, and even though he was probably 10 years younger than my husband, tattooed and long-haired in a way that was totally unfamiliar, I had a powerful urge to reach out and touch him. I felt that just touching his arm would connect me to my husband, and that however improbably he would meet my gaze with my husband's beautiful brown eyes. I kept my distance, of course. I didn't want my daughter caught up in the drama of having her pathetic widowed mother fondling strange men at public pools. And if I had gone over to him, I know his face would have been wrong, and his eyes could never have met mine with the unspoken shared thoughts that marriage brings.
I'm finding myself recalling my husband's eyes, and the pleasure it brought me to meet his gaze, and to know that we were thinking the same thing. He had the most gorgeous eyes, and I miss them looking back at me.