Love.

It’s amazing how being excited about my future can feel like being mean to Chris. I know how crazy it sounds, but I cannot get the image of Chris being hurt that I am moving forward out of my mind. I know I created it myself, too. That’s the craziest part of all; that I know I created it myself and I still feel like I’m hurting him. I feel like I’m giving up on him; something I would NEVER have done, EVER, had he survived.

Last night I got my dress for the play that I’m in. It’s an absolutely beautiful Victorian ivory lace petticoat looking gown that comes up my entire neck. I put my hair up in a 19th century upsweep and stood in the ladies room looking at what I had become and it suddenly occurred to me that Chris was never going to see this. I felt sad. One of my favorite things on stage is how you can make yourself look so different than you do in life and I loved doing that for Chris. It was fun.

Chris never missed a show of mine, even going so far as to fly to New York just a couple of months into our relationship to see the show I was in at the end of a 10-day workshop I took. He was always there. And he h a t e d community theater. It annoyed him. But, still, he came. He always had wonderful things to say about my performance, even though I know he didn’t always think I was good. I did appreciate him always pretending to think I was good, though. It was something I had relaxed into. I learned early on about the benefits of a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy. I was good just because he was in love with me.

Last night it hit me hard. I felt a sense of kicking myself, as though I did something to cause his death. I didn’t though. Cancer caused his death. Still, I am sometimes haunted by a sense of responsibility, even though we did everything we could possibly do to make him well. Last night I wished he was home when I got there. My electric timer turned on the lamp while I was out and for a brief second, I believed that I was going to open the door and see him sitting on the couch waiting for me, the Sox on the tube with sounds of a grand slam by Ortiz and the crowd going wild.

I miss his presence. I miss his smile, his sense of humor, the way he slept with his mouth open. I miss the way he looked in the morning before he put his glasses on. I miss his much anticipated arm draping over me in the night. I’d always know it was coming by the sound of him rolling over and I would move my own arm so his could fit around my waist and I always smiled. I loved the attention, even though he wasn’t aware he was giving it. I miss how he refused to wake me up to say goodnight to me when I turned in before him, even though I really wanted him to. I miss how he was able to talk me into walking with him to the mailbox on a Sunday to mail a letter, even though I walked right by it on Monday morning on my way to the T. He made the simplest tasks feel nice and after a weekend of food shopping, walking to the mailbox and enjoying a cup of coffee at the corner café, I would come into work on Monday to an e-mail from him telling me he had a really nice weekend with me and thanking me. So sweet.