My friend Jim would have been 75 today if he hadn't left us almost three years ago. We seldom saw each other, he being in New Jersey and I being in Boston, but we spoke on the phone several times every week and I would be lying if I said it hurts any less that I can't hear that clipped New Jersey accent barking, "Hey! It's me!" over the line. For the first time in my #@ years I actually baked his recipe for Irish soda bread on Saint Patrick's Day. It didn't come out anywhere near as good as his always did, of course, but it was a small way of paying tribute to a dear friend who is still sorely, sorely missed.
A couple of my friends have lost their husbands, which, I will readily admit, is a much harder deal. To adjust to the absence of such a daily presence must be horrific, and I pray I never experience it. One can only pretend for so long that he's out for the day or in the other room, although in fact, I do believe all our loved ones who have gone on ahead actually ARE in the other room. But it's one to which we don't have access yet, which makes it a bear to bear.
We get used to the silences, the phones that don't ring, the call we can't make, but the echoes reverberate somewhere inside and it feels like an endless cavern within. I read the other day that living with grief is like having a giant hole on your property. You forget it's there the first few times and you fall in and it hurts. Then eventually you learn to walk around it. But it's always there.
The worst part of getting older for me is not the widening waist or the graying hair. It's the number of "holes" I have to walk around. "This is a day in our lives and it will not come again," said Jim (A.K.A. "Seamas") over and over again. I miss your wisdom and your laughter, your love of Ireland, your gentle critiques of my writing, your totally dependable friendship, and the joy you brought to my life and the lives of so many others. Today I fell in the hole.
A couple of my friends have lost their husbands, which, I will readily admit, is a much harder deal. To adjust to the absence of such a daily presence must be horrific, and I pray I never experience it. One can only pretend for so long that he's out for the day or in the other room, although in fact, I do believe all our loved ones who have gone on ahead actually ARE in the other room. But it's one to which we don't have access yet, which makes it a bear to bear.
We get used to the silences, the phones that don't ring, the call we can't make, but the echoes reverberate somewhere inside and it feels like an endless cavern within. I read the other day that living with grief is like having a giant hole on your property. You forget it's there the first few times and you fall in and it hurts. Then eventually you learn to walk around it. But it's always there.
The worst part of getting older for me is not the widening waist or the graying hair. It's the number of "holes" I have to walk around. "This is a day in our lives and it will not come again," said Jim (A.K.A. "Seamas") over and over again. I miss your wisdom and your laughter, your love of Ireland, your gentle critiques of my writing, your totally dependable friendship, and the joy you brought to my life and the lives of so many others. Today I fell in the hole.
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