I opened my mail today to find a note from our friend, Bill Hacker. It was odd to see his name on the return address corner in my mail pile because, while I consider Bill a friend, we don’t often socialize together. But just one day from the one-year anniversary of John’s passing, I figured he may be sending a few sentiments on the subject. As I opened the card, a folder paper started to slip out. A saw a few typed written words and realized right away that it was a copy of a note that I had written to Bill upon the sudden passing of his wife, Susan, 11 years ago. He was writing to share back with me what the note said and to remind me of what I said to him, “I don’t know if we share that same faith, but I trust enough in mine to believe that one day, when the time is right, you will be together again.”
In that note, I talked about the song “Seasons of Love” from the musical RENT. The song asks the question “How do you measure a year in the life.” I told Bill that the song speaks of the measure (and remembering friends) in love.
To take a general measure of this past year in our life would be difficult, but to measure it as the song would suggest, in love, makes the calculation a cinch. From the moment I knocked on my neighbor’s door on February 27, 2019, frantically asking for help, until this very moment that I sit typing (February 26, 2020), waiting with angst for tomorrow to come, the kids and I have experienced nothing but pure love. Our “measuring” cup overflows with kindness and support. There are no words to adequately express the thanks that we have for the untold number of kind deeds that were afforded us, so quite simply I say “thank you.”
Sometimes a day or a week or a year can seem like an eternity. When you are waiting so anxiously for something fun to come, the days and hours drag on, unending. But when all you want to do is remember, and you beg for time to stop so that you can savor every moment, and take in every word that is being said, time seems to pass by at warp speed. In the blink of an eye John has been gone a whole year. 365 days since I last laid eyes on him, or felt his hand grab for mine. It’s been a year of grief, of trepidation, of anger, of uncertainty, and of moving forward. I will never, ever forget the time I had with him, the lessons he taught me and the ones that I have had to learn in his absence. I will never forget the silly way he used to dance or his smiling eyes. I will never forget the way he called me “Lishy” or the fact that he said “Yo” every time he called or came through the kitchen door. I’ll never forget seeing the back of his head on the chair in the family room while I worked at the dining roo
m table. I will never forget his kiss. And I will never forget the last time I told him “I love you.”
Life is fragile. Death is so final and there are no do overs. Tread gently.
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