More Often

More Often |


Once in a while it will hit me like a blow to my stomach. Not often — just occasionally, when perhaps I haven’t thought about it for a few weeks. I always know how it is I came to be living here, how I came to be teaching what I am, how I found myself taking pictures again. i know how far along the path I’ve travelled, how healed I am, how much ‘better’ my life is now. I know all of this, and I am grateful to be here. But once in a while, like this evening, I will remember. I will sit down on my sofa, with all the wind taken out of my sails. I will sit there and find I have no words, as I say over and over to myself: he died. Sometimes I think I get upset simply because I remember the pain that came after; I remember that pain more keenly than I can remember his touch. After nearly five years I can now admit the screw-ups of our relationship, and how we may not have been together today, had he still been here. I can see the failings and flaws, the disappointments and regrets. The rose-tinted specs are off and the reality check is in place. And I know that I have let him go. I know I have. But once in a while I’ll stop what I’m doing with the enormity of remembering, and I’ll wish I had said I love you more often than I did.