One year.

I’m posting this early, in anticipation of hibernating on the actual anniversary, as I tend to do.  It is easier for me to deal in my own time, and the pressure of this looming date makes me want to avoid it.  Sometimes I don’t know if I’m really feeling certain emotions, or if it’s the impending milestones that make me feel them harder. For the past month or so I’ve felt like this anniversary was something I was fully prepared to deal with – at least to the healthy, normal extent one can deal with something like this. I had been mentally composing myself in advance, as I tend to do, and was filled with uplifting thoughts about growth, moving forward in a positive way, and learning how to cherish the lessons I learned from Luke.

But as these days creep by, as the biting cold of November really sinks in, and strikes home, I realize I was viewing this upcoming day from a very removed place. It’s like saying you wouldn’t be homesick if you traveled abroad for a month – you may think that now, but once you’re in it, down in those trenches, only then will you really know how you feel.

And now, against my will, I’m being forced to relive it. If I could move to Hawaii for the winter, I could avoid it, but of course avoiding it isn’t what I need to be doing either. It’s just the damn cold. The way the wind smells as it blows leaves down the street. The familiar orange and red, more recognizable now by the feelings of sorrow they bring to my heart. The last time I stood freezing on a corner was when I was rushing to be by my husband’s side in the hospital. At least that’s the last time I remember. I know there was a December and a January, which must have been much colder, but they did not make it past the strict boundaries of my awareness.

I do believe it is hitting home now, finally. I keep getting these flashes of images, words that were said, things that happened, and I almost view it from an outsider’s perspective. That poor woman, how did she go through those things? There must have been a strength I didn’t know I had; and I wonder, did I really have it, or did some greater quality in me rise up and take over this fragile heart, because there’s no way I could imagine surviving it now.

My husband died in my arms. I have to let that sink in. Who was that woman who guided him calmly into death, breathing his breath with him, eyes focused intently on his chest, waiting for his heart to stop beating? Was I really under so much duress leading up to that moment, that I could handle what was to come next? If you were to take me back there to that room, to those moments, and drop me in the middle of it, I believe I’d run screaming, unable to handle watching someone I love so much die.

And I think of him. I think of the times before he got really bad, when he would tell me how much he loved me, desperate panic in his voice. Removed from that now, not in the trenches, I wonder who that woman was who was so lucky to have had that. I have not forgotten his love, nor mine for him, and in many ways I talk about him as though he’s still alive, because my love has not faded one sliver. That is truly something permanent. But the pain and the love go hand in hand, and I cannot remember one without the other. I know that will always be there, and I understand now what it means to have a hole in your heart that can never be filled. I’ll have to ask Nickle what his great metaphor was for that feeling, something about the knots on a tree; they don’t prevent the tree from growing, majestically even, they simply become a part of it.

I can’t hear his voice anymore, or remember his laugh. I have a couple of his voicemails saved, but those have now become too familiar, memorized, rote. There truly is no more newness now, save the few pictures I get to see that others have found, or the things of his that were in the last drawer I finally went through, about two weeks ago. It took me a year, but I wanted to wait until I was ready – and I was. I laughed when I looked at some of the things in there, just little reminders of who he was. It was a joyful experience, just he and I alone in my room, laughing and reliving the memories.

So here I am at the year mark, and perhaps it’s a control thing, but I tend to fight back when things overwhelm me. The truth is, I don’t really have to deal with it until I’m ready. It’s just a date. Yes, it’s an anniversary of sorts, but this is the day he was taken from me, and I don’t give it credit. There are so many wonderful, important days in Luke’s life, and November 15th is not one of them. So you’ll have to forgive me if I am absent on this day.

And there are other ways I honor him. I love more fiercely now. He taught me to relentlessly pursue happiness, by being who you are and not living or loving in fear. I know I am not the only person he truly taught how to love. And I think of him when I’m feeling vulnerable, when I’m unsure, or feeling my walls coming up. He would have crumbled those walls like they were a house of cards, starkly and nakedly showing his truths, boldly looking you in the face and telling you his feelings. “I love you and I’m not ready for you to go,” he said to me once when I was falling apart on him. It was impossible to doubt his love. And that part of his character has transferred to me. I love fiercely now, realizing that every moment is precious, and life must happen now. I think we all know this not too far beneath the surface, but losing Luke has forced me to recognize it in a real and active way.

I suppose I never thought I’d be ok again. As I look one year in the face, I realize I did come out on the other side, and I didn’t lose my mind as I thought I would. While I still can’t look back with simply a smile and a warm fuzzy in my heart, those things are still there – they’re just accompanied by equal parts pain and aching. Right now, I feel like I’ll never shift that balance to only having joyful feelings, but I know not to try to predict the future anymore.

One year. I suppose this is the stark reminder of how time is relative, as it could just as easily be one month. Grief truly follows no timelines, but I was fortunate enough and truly honored to have shared my time with someone like Luke, who left a legacy of love and honesty, giving me something to hold onto, and the means with which to go forward without him.

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