This Time of Year

Three years ago today I was watching my best friend slowely waste away in what is called in cancer terms "wasting syndrome." The body begins to essentially disintegrate. While this time of year is always difficult for various reasons, I have come to a new understanding of how to deal this time of every year that will follow me for the rest of my life.

Three years ago today I was on "family leave." During this time, Billy and I watched movies, talked, rested, and just lived our lives in ways that only those without jobs are able to do. We were both homebound, alone in our own worlds with nothing to interrupt the love we had for eachother, the friendship that existed, or the knowledge that this would be the last few weeks we would have as a partnership. I recognize that I had a great life with this man who made my life so wonderful in many ways that I can recount in several posts down the road, but today I am tearful and sorry that I am unable to spread his ashes. I can't part with that black box of his body locked up in ashes that I got from the funeral home. It's wierd, yet comforting, knowing that he is stil there on a shelf. Clearly, he can't talk to me, but he's stil there. If I spread those ashes, he's then gone from my life in some strange manner that I can't seem to put my finger on.

I still have not thrown out certain clothing. There is the dark blue sweatshirt that he wore on cold days, the flannel shirts he wore to work and yet another pair of workboots--of which he had many! That all still remains alive in my closet, but of course, dead in the sense of the word. Those items do not belong to me, they belong to another living organism, one that knew me once, knew my laugh, my smile, my hugs and kisses. He is alive in some senses, but October always brings back family leave to me. It was the longest time I went without a job since I was 14 years old and I was thankful that I got that time to spend with him, but it's cold comfort. I know I missed some things. I missed saying more than I could at the time because we pretended he would not die.

During our time together we never talked about death. He simply refuses to acknowledge that I took time off from school to be with him in his last days. It was an unusual situation for a 35 year old person, who was essentially in the middle of a good life with a partner, to be losing the best part of that expectedly long life, but there we sat: on the couch, alone in our misery and non-observance of death pending.

Now, I see this time of year as so beautiful in its weather, but so sad in in the past memories of a beautiful life so full of hope and promise. It's gone now, never to be seen or heard from again. That life once known by many is a memory, but I can recall it with something bittersweet in the best sense of the word.