It’s been 3 years, 8 months, and 27 days since your murder.
I shall always count the days you’re not with me, always calculate your birthdays, always long for your famous baked beans overflowing with bacon on Forth of July.
In the beginning, I was out of control, inconsolable, wandering around the house shouting– “son-of-a-bitch, bastard, why did this happen to our family?”
Why couldn’t we save you?
In the beginning, I drank an over abundance of red wine.
Cupcake, Turning Leaf, Cabernet, Pinot, any kind of red wine. I’d look at the clock and ask, “Is it 5:00 yet? Will you open a bottle of wine? Where the hell is the wine?”
I stayed in bed praying for death to come.
How hard could it be, right?
I mean, you were healthy, planning a future, and without warning, three gunshots caused you to diminish like a snuffed out candle.
Just like that. Just like that.
I contemplated placing my head inside oven like Sylvia Plath did, or stepping in front of a moving semi, or sitting inside a closed garage while the fumes of the Kia stopped the pain, the fucking pain.
Dying is simple. Living is hard.
I thought of all of these things.
I’m sorry, Kay, but I did. It’s true.
And for some reason, some inexplicable reason, I was astonished when I’d awaken the next morning with my heart still beating, my breath still circulating, my mind still intact, & Dave still snuggled next to me like a big teddy bear when I was unpleasantly unsnuggable.
You see, in my wildest nightmares, in my unconscious psyche, I couldn’t comprehend a life without you, a universe without you.
Did you ever imagine one without me?
We talked about living together at 85.
“Can you imagine us as wrinkly old women?” You’d laugh.
“Yes.” I laughed back. “But not ordinary old women!”
We talked about drinking martinis on our Andy Griffith porch, wearing red high heels, and waving to the young boys strolling by.
We talked about rescuing cats from the humane society. Lots of them.
“I definitely want a Siamese like from our childhood,” I announced.
We talked without talking.
In the beginning, I sat at the cemetery rubbing my fingers over your marble stone.
I prayed to a silent God.
“Do you hear me? Where the hell are you?”
I wept about all of the lost moments, our early days, your children growing up without you, marinated chicken on your grill, holidays with an empty chair, the what ifs, the stories that would never be.
That was 3 years, 8 months, and 27 days ago.
… before I understood about your emancipation, your liberation, your final release from this world into a new one, a better one.
…before I realized God was not silent; I just wasn’t listening.
…before I knew you were no longer a victim.
In the beginning, there was you & me.
And when I take my last mouthful of air,
I shall grasp your hand once again, my dear sister.
This will be a beautiful resurrection.
—–Dear, Reader, do you believe you will see your loved ones again? Do you believe in resurrection & God?
—Watch Kay’s Last Video: http://myinnerchick.com/2013/11/01/keep-holding-on-footage-of-kays-last-days/