I wrote this earlier, but even now, with three years gone by, things are still the same. My husband passed on May 22, 2020. I love you, John
| Living In Day-Tight Compartments The calendar informs me another year has passed since the oxygen levels in my life diminished. How do I even begin to measure the years? My mind cannot comprehend this passing of time. Yes, I know the things to which I’ve put my hand. I can list two novels completed, another begun. I can recount my efforts to carve out a place for myself in this strange, new world in which I’m forced to live. The tears have fallen, sometimes mimicking a waterfall, sometimes a leaky faucet, a constant, unwelcome reminder that things have shifted. Nothing is the way it was. How do I even begin to measure the years? Moving forward in time is not a choice. You do what’s expected of you, what you expect, what you know he would expect you to do. Yet, you know you’re not really moving forward. You’re living life in day-tight compartments. Each day is a new life you fill with routines and expectations that will lead you to yet another day. You cannot accept the passing of time, the years, for it means the best part of your life is gone. So many things left undone, unsaid. How do I even begin to measure the years? To embrace this new life with unbridled hope may be asking more than I can give at the moment. Learning to be alone, to accept that no one will answer when I speak my thoughts is all I can manage now. I will continue to live in day-tight compartments until I can see a light at the end of this tunnel, until I can promise myself more than one day at a time, until the oxygen level rises again, and I can breathe. ©DWilliamsen |
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