About a week ago, I decided I was going to take my and Chris’ wedding picture down from its place on the wall at the top of the stairs at the entrance of my apartment, and replace it with a picture of Jonathan and me. I think that when, and if, he notices (Let’s face it. He’s a man, and for all of the importance I placed on the deed, he’ll probably walk right by my framed gesture.) he may be delightfully surprised at my token of affection and forward movement from the “then” into the “now.”
Removing our wedding picture stung. I’m still not sure what to do with this very special record of my past love. At the moment, the photo, still in its frame, sits on the end table next to the chair Chris sat in as I held his hand, talking him out of this world and into the next.
I’m saddened and I feel guilty (of course). I’m erasing my husband. No. Cancer erased my husband. I loved him. I loved being his wife. I loved telling everyone that I was wildly in love with him. I was wildly in love with him.
Still, the fact that he has been transformed into a flattened, paper likeness of the man I knew and loved stings less and less with the entrance of acceptance and the exit of denial and anger.
Jonathan helped me make the switch. He helps me make the switch every day, whether or not he realizes.
Jonathan. I wonder if he’ll notice. If not immediately, then eventually.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment