Tuesday, January 17, 2012
There are days when I am still astounded that he hasn't come home.
6:30 pm rolls around and I find myself listening for the distinctive note of his car pulling into the driveway.
I find myself looking for him in the shed, expecting to see him fixing something on his workbench.
My brain hasn't worked out that he is gone.
I am like Red Dog, searching high and low for the one he loves. Searching faces and seeming to ask "have you seen him?" Going from place to place, determined to find the person who he loved above all others. Never stopping.
On the day Greg died, I looked for him in the faces of the policemen, expecting them to tell me where he was ... when they had already told me where he wasn't.
I searched the faces of his friends.
I search for him every night in my dreams .... and sometimes I find him.
I found him in my dreams last week and I asked him WHY he had to go. (That question that we all wonder: WHY did they die, WHY are we left here without them, WHY they were taken long before their time???)
In the dream, he just carried on making a sandwich and explained (as though repeating himself for the umpteenth time) that "there was a car accident".
....and even though that is the truth of it, it doesn't seem to stop my subconscious mind from searching for him every day and every night.
Because I have lost him, and I still have this desperate need to find him.
... I know the word "loss / lost" annoys a lot of widows and I want to assure you that I do know exactly where his body is, but "lost" is a word I often use because it describes how *I* feel as well.