Remember December

Remember December

It’s nine o’clock in the evening. I’m standing where water meets sand – the ocean’s tide line. I’ve come to listen to waves, to watch lines of water advance and retreat. The day has been extraordinarily ordinary: a Santa parade, chat with new friends, a new (used) bike for Fiona, a run on the ocean road with Finley alongside on his bike; erection of a Christmas tree; a late dinner of shrimp on the Barbie with loads of garlic. It was sunny and beautiful and gorgeously easy. No one got hurt or sick. No one died or even threw a major tantrum. I've come to the ocean to give thanks, just as in the past, I've come to offer tears.

Three years ago, the kids and I were caught in a tangle of sickness.  I shuttled between home, hospital and work while Sean was critically ill. Enmeshed in the web, you can’t see beyond the filaments that cloud your vision. You can’t imagine the snarl will unravel, releasing you to new life.

December third would’ve been my thirteenth wedding anniversary. Sean and I were married ten years before he died. In that horrible post-death haze of the First Year, I couldn’t envision another romance - ever. I cringed, then laughed nervously when friends broached the subject.  Now, three years later, I see more clearly what's possible: life after death exists for those left behind; love arrives later if we let it in; opportunities present if we fling ourselves into the world, cling to this moment, embrace those who want and need us.

Imagine someone telling you you’d be smitten – consumed by new love after something so wrenching as the death of a spouse. You’d tell them they were crazy, even if, deep down, you hoped they were right.  Imagine some day, you’d be sitting on your deck, watching the sea in its many permutations: turquoise blue under sunshine, navy blue under gray clouds, black and white at night… Imagine someone predicting you’d run on the sand almost every day; that your children would attend school far from the home they knew; that you’d build a new circle of friends, collection of favorite places, foods and activities thousands of miles from the Old Life. 

Imagine the most miraculous idea: you would love someone again so deeply that seeing their happiness is akin to creating your own. That the same someone would love you so selflessly in return. 

I can’t help the melancholy wind that blows each December like a predictable sandstorm. Decembers are never the same after someone you’ve deeply loved has died. You remember the anniversary and think back to Christmases past. I wish I could have my beloved just like I used to – that Sean and I could take the kids to Greenbluff to chop down a ten-foot blue spruce; that we could return to the house in Eagle Ridge, where I’d make pumpkin pancakes and bacon; that he and I could plan an anniversary dinner at the Davenport or Latah or Luna or anywhere the lights were low and someone else would cook; that we could plan a child-free vacation in Hawaii or Puerto Rico or St. Lucia or anywhere the ocean was warm and the cocktails cold. Desire for love’s past doesn’t end.

A widow friend (the inspiration for my New Zealand trip), told me of her late husband, “We honor him by living the best and most vital life we can.” We honor those who die by loving those in front of us as fully and gratefully as possible. 

So, on what would’ve been my thirteenth wedding anniversary, I did what Sean so badly wanted me to do – the thing I rarely did – sat on the couch with my beloved and watched a movie. I held Pete’s hand. It sounds weird, I know, but I picture Sean, and he’s smiling.  His anniversary gift was and still is – love.