Transfiguration

You left in autumn

The leaves were turning

I walked down roads of orange and gold

I saw your sweet smile

I heard your laughter

You're still here beside me

Everyday

'Cause I know you by heart

Eve Scalon/Eve Nelson

My dearest love,

The day has come again, the day you left behind your cancer-ridden body and ascended to your form as a spirit, a being of undying energy. While contemplating this blog, I remembered the word "tranfiguration" and decided I want to acknowledge September 30, not as the day of your death, but the day of your transfiguration. The Oxford Dictionary defines transfiguration as "a complete change of form or appearance into a more beautiful or spiritual state." I like thinking of your departure in those terms.

I wish the day would become easier, but each year is as painful as the last for me, left behind and waiting for the day we are together again. Don't get me wrong, I have no desire to die. I have my girls to love and watch as they grow and become their own people. I have my daughter to love; I have your daughter and son to love. I have my friends and my family to love. Their love sustains me. But I don't have you, and it's unbearable.

When I think back on this day six years ago, I remember everything in shades of grey. Isn't that bizarre? I usually have full, technicolour memories. But that day, it is all monochrome. And I see myself moving through the day in slow motion, not quite knowing what to do or think or feel. I was so numb, in a state of shock, I think. I knew it was coming, but nothing prepared me for that final moment when you took your last breaths, surprisingly gentle and soft. I was so glad for that mercy for both of us. And I had to remind myself, in that moment, that your pain was over. You had hated every moment of being diminished by the disease. You had always been the very embodiment of perpetual movement; you were incapable of sitting still for even a moment. Body always in movement. And then you were there, in the bed, now eternally motionless, not even breath to move your chest up and down. The song "Misty" was playing in the background. I was holding your hand when you died; I didn't want to let go. "I get misty just holding your hand."

I still reach for your hand, you know. Sometimes I reach out when I am lying in the darkness, praying that, for just one moment, I can feel your hand in mine again, that I can hear your voice again, your laugh, to see your eyes twinkling again. I used to tell you that I hoped you knew that everytime I said I loved you, I meant it with every fibre of my being. They weren't just words. They were the easiest expression of my complete devotion to you. I never loved anyone the way I loved you. I still do. Can you hear me?

I was part of a conversation during which a lady told someone else that I believed your spirit was still with me. It was clear she didn't believe in spirits staying nearby. I hated that she used the word "believed" in almost a mocking way. I don't believe your spirit is still with me; I know your spirit is still with me. And sometimes I can feel you so close by, just there, beyond my vision, but not beyond my heart.

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I love this piece of digital photo art that Chris created. When I first saw it, I told him that it reminded me of Tinker Bell, the little light dancing hither and thither. He had no title for this image, but I have named it "Clap if you believe." Seems right for this blog.