It's four years since Kevin left this world. Much has happened and at the same time, nothing has happened. The death of a person who is the center of your life dwarfs everything. Nothing that comes after, short of your own death, I suspect, can touch the enormity of that event. So much has happened but nothing has happened.

It's been ten years since 9-11. The grief that surrounds that day, the painful images, the families broken and hollow, bring back all my own deep sadness. I'm sure everyone who has lost someone finds 9-11 difficult to get through without grieving once again for their loss no matter how many years later.

But 9-11, this year, brought out something clarifying to the emptiness that I feel now, so different than the first few years. No longer do I expect to see him when I come into the house. Now it's possible to talk about him without holding back tears. I've given up missing the annual things we used to do – Montauk, Mohonk, holidays with friends. Those have been replaced with different places and friends, old and new, that mean a great deal to me. I've even found some things that are “better” without him. You know, no pile of clothes on the bedroom floor, the “honey do list” that never got done gets done in 48 hours - that's what handymen are for - and no more disagreements about those insignificant things...wall colors, peas or green beans and how early to get to the airport.

What I have realized, however, is that I can't go “Home” any more. Remember on 9-11, the only good thing about that day was coming home. Home was safe, secure, protected. All those terrible things couldn't penetrate Home. I remember coming in that night and we just hugged and hugged and held each other, happy to be Home. “I want to go Home!” “I want to go Home!”

Kevin was my Home. I was home when I saw him on the couch, working on one of his projects. Home was the piano chord sound of his Mac computer starting up and the endless groans of music editing drifting up from the basement. Home was hearing his deep breathing and seeing the faint silhouette of his body next to me in the dark. Home was the two of us...it was the certainty that he was there, with me and we'd be there, safe and protected...together...where no one and nothing could get us.

Four years later I feel like I've been away from Home a long, long, long time. “Please, can I go Home now?”

Are You All Right?

Like a mantra, an incoherant whisper, a heart murmur, I keep repeating - "Are you all right?" I've stopped talking to you throughout the day, telling you what I'm doing, asking you questions about where you last saw the philips head screwdriver or the beach towel with the stripes. Not as often, but I still do beg you to please come back and let me get back to my life. The life that, even when bad, was my life. The life I chose to live.

Now, I just chant - "Are you all right?" "Are you OK?" Most times I'm not really sure if I am talking to you or to myself. But in either case the answer is "No, I'm not all right!"

I can't fathom that you are not you any more. That you are not anything any more. You filled my life with purpose, with drive, with pride, anger, lust, insecurity, confidence, hatred and profound love along with thousands of other deep emotions. How could you not exist any longer? I still don't get it? Will I ever?

No, neither of us is all right - not all right at all and never will be again.

February 10, 2011

Today, on what would have been the fourth anniversary of our wedding I went to the beach with another man. There was no outward sign of what this day meant, how it had been the celebration of your life – your living wake; your opportunity to see all your friends together one last time (as I would, soon enough) and be the center of attention – even though that was not something you often strove to be. There was no indication at all except for the tight knot in my stomach and the smoldering fear that I was missing something important. A pain in my body that just went away now knowing what I had been missing as I woke in the middle of the night remembering what February 10th meant...February 10th!

This day was cold, windy, crisp and diamond clear, a gorgeous winter day at water’s edge. Making it past the mounds of ice that threatened to block access was easier than it looked with a steady, warm hand to guide me - a simple pleasure – but one I had not often experienced with you. And once there the choppy bay sparkled in the February sun – surprisingly warmer than expected. The sense that winter was passing. The sky – oh the sky was so blue and without a cloud. You would have preferred an overcast day – better for the camera lens – flat light a photographer’s dream.

But this was a day you would have marveled at. And as was my role – I would have groused – whining of the cold but secretly delighted to be with you wherever you wanted me to be. You would have strolled the beach and salt marsh with your camera in one hand – seeing the world as only you could see it through that incredible artist’s lens that shaped your life. You were most alive, at least I thought you were, when you had a camera in your hand, capturing images that no one else could see until they printed out on paper.

You would have been far away from me. Too preoccupied with your visions to hold my hand on an icy patch or see that my ears were turning blue. I was there – always there, at the perimeter of your world – waiting for instructions, waiting for the action to shift to me - a frustration that needed to be smoothed away; a shim under a shaky chair, a road grader making the travel easier. You knew I was near, lurking, waiting to be called in for my part – making life bearable for you.

But this day felt different, perhaps because for the first time I was unaware of your presence in my life. This wasn’t a trip to remember you, or feel the power of your influence on me or just try to get closer to my devastated life with you. No, this day was not about you – or even me and you. I sucked in the freezing cold air into my lungs like I had been holding my breath. Seeing familiar things I never saw before in a place I’d never been to – again.

Today, on what would have been the fourth anniversary of our wedding I was finally, nearly bearably without you.