I catch myself uttering the words, “I want to go home” with alarming regularity. Even when I AM home. And it dawns on me that “home” is home, but less so. Home is really HIM. And always was and will be. It is no longer a tangible place, it never really was. It’s just that it took Cliff’s death for me to realize this.
I also keep saying, “I can’t wait to see you,” whilst feeling a twinge of excitement, just like I used to at the end of each working day. Please don’t let me be misunderstood. I AM adjusting to living whilst not wishing to be here anymore. IRRATIONAL? Not so.
Irrational is trying to phone your dead husband 48 hours after you witness him taking his last breath. Irrational is taking a photo of your empty living room to see if the camera’s eye can see him even though you cannot. I should know.
One of my regrets is that I never had the chance to learn more practical stuff from him. When we decorated our bar-room, I had such fun with him, learning how to paint. We accomplished it together and enjoyed the room together too. Only one room. Only two weeks before he died, we chose wallpaper for our bedroom and the hallway.
How much longer do I have to suffer before you’ll come and get me? I just want to finish off our affairs, get everything in order, so that all your hard work isn’t wasted. Then PLEASE come for me. I can’t do longer than a couple of years, perhaps three … this is not tenable, it isn’t living by any stretch of the imagination.