Time May Heal All Wounds, But Grief?

  Hey Hon.

You know I’m writing again, I’ve been very good at publishing blogs on a regular basis. Not that you really understood the whole blogging thing. Anyway, I was reading some of what others have published and one caught my immediate and full attention. It asked, What would you say to your loved one, if you could. ( https://thegriefreality.blog/2021/07/15/23-thursday-thoughts-what-would-you-say-to-your-loved-one-if-you-could/   )      So here I am, about to write this letter that you will never read, but maybe, some how, you’ll still know. 

You had been telling me for a long while, that you would die before me. I don’t know, it could be you knew something you weren’t telling, or something you just suspected. The fact that your health was not the best having you believing this, but you had it on your mind often. Either way, you would tell me again, and make me promise again, that I would not remain alone. You just didn’t want me to be alone. I would promise just so you would drop the subject, I simply didn’t actually consider that you would leave us so soon. But you did.

When the call came, I was still at work. Of course it wasn’t the official call, it was a friend checking, not believing a rumor heard. Telling me, was accidental. There are moments when my reaction still echoes in my head and heart. But, I had to go home. I had to tell our son, that….you were gone. So far away, it might just as well have been a world away.  For a very long time that bothered me. The fact that you died alone in that truck, in a truck stop, in another state. Then one day I heard the pastor telling us maybe, it was meant to be a reminder, that we don’t die alone. Even if physically there is no one with us, the angels are. They come and gently lead us home.  That did go a long way to easing the guilt I had carried. The regrets of my not having told you when you first started feeling bad, to just come home. You thought it was the flu and that you’d feel better if you rested. But no.

 Now my love, you are better than you have ever been. Closed your eyes here, opened them in Heaven. Last breath here, first in Heaven. I could go on about being so envious of that, but I’ll save that one for another time. I’m guessing that you can see what’s going on down here from where you are.

Somewhere along the line I read or heard a message on how those who have gone on can see this life. So you know we’re doing okay. I know you have to be so very proud of your son. He has grown into a fine man. The older he gets the more he acts like you, which may or may not be a good thing. But he works so hard and tries even harder to do the best he is able in everything he attempts. He is also a lot like my brother Michael with that warped sense of humor. But I’m sure you’ve seen that. I wonder how often you’ve elbowed someone nearby with a, “That’s my boy!”

 It is difficult to believe that it has been four years and four months since you left. It seems like yesterday, and then again, it feels like forever ago. That mind numbing grief that hung around, dragging me into this dark pit of depression and despair isn’t so bad  now. It still creeps up from time to time, but I can shake it off and move forward.  There are still days, even now, when things happen that I want so desperately to tell you about. I want to sit and talk with you, laugh with you, love with you and even yes, argue, because that’s all a part of life and loving. I miss hearing you call from some other part of the house asking me to bring you a cup of coffee, to come sit on the porch with you, just to watch nothing going on around us. Swatting mosquitoes until I read about having a fan on the porch, that the little demons can’t fly against the breeze from the fan. I was over joyed when it actually worked. That fan is still out there in the corner of the porch.

 I have that big queen size bed to myself now. Bella sleeps down at the foot of it on your side. There is a tower fan that our son gave us a few years ago that she loves. There are nights I miss fighting over cover. Nights I miss asking if we could turn the ceiling fan down a notch. I miss you getting angry with me because of my asking if you could turn the television off. Some nights, when I finally give in and give up, I’ll go to bed and sit there, staring at the far wall, listening for, trying to remember, sounds from way back then.

 Other nights, when I’m not haunted by memories, crawling into that bed and settling in to sleep isn’t a problem. Because there are none of the aforementioned  issues. But then, there was that night that I drifted off to sleep easily, was sleeping well, when you came to me in a dream. Ranting at me over some expenditure, that I was or had paid too much. I awoke remembering that easily, that was you. Always on about money. You had begun to talk often about retiring, but you didn’t make it there. I found myself unexpectedly retired at the end of last year. Its not easy, I’m still trying to adjust. And the money thing, well that may be why you came to me in that dream, but we’ll be okay. I know that, I know that God provides.

 If I could tell you anything, I would tell you just how badly I miss you. I’d love for you to see this room now, it and the kitchen look so different since your son helped me remodel them year before last. I wouldn’t even mind for you to walk up to the doorway and pick up the same things you picked up last time and ask, ‘what’s this?’ or try on one of my many hats. Or make those faces at me that always annoyed me but you thought so funny. I miss the flowers that you filled the yard with, even when I said no. You knew I wanted them and you’d do without if need be to see that I got at least one more. I’d tell you, how badly I miss you. Miss feeling your arms around me. How I miss your kisses. How I miss your presence in the house or sitting on the porch. I would ask, if you noticed that I still sleep in your shirt, because, just because.

 I’d ask you, if you’ve noticed how much Molly acts like Odie. I know you never really got over his loss. Molly is as much of a big goofball as Odie was. She’s really loving, and tries to be protective, but she’s not as brave as she puts on.

 I’m rambling, I know I’m rambling. I don’t know how much time I would be given to speak to you. Would we have all the time we wanted? If so then I would want forever. Would we really talk, or simply hold each other for a while? Because I really don’t think that I would be able to tell you all that I would want to in less than forever. Except for, I do so miss you. I do so still love you. There are days when I feel so terribly alone, days when the loneliness eats at my soul. But those are fewer and farther between. I have that growing peace and understanding that is healing, that does help. If God wills that I find someone else to love, then it will happen. Until then, I will trust in His plan. I will believe that in Him, I am not alone. I will  and do know, that what ever happens, my prayer is that everything I do, brings glory to Him. 

So don’t worry about us my love, I do miss you, will always miss you, but we’re doing okay. We’ll be fine. Because as the time has passed, this deep grief has evolved. It doesn’t hurt so much now, the longing isn’t as crushing, it is more of a reminder of what we had.

About rebecca s revels

A writer, a photographer, a cancer survivor. An adventurer of the mild kind, a lover of the simple pleasures such as long walks and chocolate. A Christian unashamed of my faith and a friend who is dependable and will encourage readily. Author of three self published books with more waiting to find their way to paper. An advocate of good things, a fighter against wrongs.
This entry was posted in encouragement, faith, family, inspiration, life's journey, memories, Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

19 Responses to Time May Heal All Wounds, But Grief?

  1. John says:

    Wow, I feel and understand your loss and grief. I remember when my mother passed, it hurt so deeply and always will. It takes almost nothing to get me crying. But the grief does lessen with time. I find that the grief has to be incorporated into who I am today. Life hurts, but life goes on.

  2. cindy knoke says:

    I am sincerely sorry for your loss.

  3. It’s been four years and four months, you still feel pain, this shows time doesn’t heal that pain. I am sorry for your loss. Good you wrote this blog.

  4. wynneleon says:

    Beautiful and brave! I love those pictures of your family! May you feel him with you always! ❤

  5. Maya Rajesh says:

    This is so beautiful :)) I’m so sorry for you loss, but the title of this post reminded me of a book quote I read: “They say time heals all wounds, but that presumes the source of the grief is finite.”

  6. Woodsy says:

    Beautifully tender and understated.
    thank you for doing me the honour of reading all my spillings lately – even the ones I have felt conflicted about posting.

  7. hisprodigal1 says:

    Take heart sister . . . His resurrection will someday be our reunion where He has promised us there will be no more crying, pain, tears or grief.

  8. Akriti Jain says:

    Such a heart-felt post ❤ all the strength n blessings for you dear… 😇 Writing is a great way to say the things which can’t really say for some reason… it’s hard to live on with the grief, but remember these small stories will always bring our loved ones to life…even if it is for a little while.. 😇😇😇

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