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?”
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?”
