Our love remains

The thing about grief is you never know when it's going to pop up or what will trigger it.

I was having a really good day the other day, thinking that I've got it all together. I ran errands after work and stopped by the local nursery to see about buying some flowers. Yes, it's late in the season, but at least I am trying this year. Besides, flowers and all things plant-wise were Gene's area. I have a dark brown thumb that lightened over the years with Gene's help. But I can still kill just about anything green; it just might take a little longer.

At the nursery, I ran into the mother of a friend from grade school who is also a member of our parish. I haven't seen her in a couple of years. We said, "hello" and hugged and then it happened:

"So how's Gene?" she asked.

For the first year after Gene died, I always braced myself for that question whenever I saw anyone. But no one asked. Then after the 1st anniversary, I stopped preparing for the question. This was the second time in a month I had been blindsided.

"I lost Gene a year ago last month," I said. She lost her husband 17 year ago. We talked about loss for a minute or two and she left saying she would pray for me.

I went to my car -- without flowers -- but with my grief.

And then this evening I was watching the end of a movie I'd started watching several days ago, "Morning Glory," starring Rachel McAdams, Harrison Ford and Diane Keaton.

After something meaningful happens to our heroine, Becky Fuller (McAdams), she tracks down the man she recently broke up with.

"You were the first person I wanted to tell," she says, explaining the unexpected visit.

I can't remember the number of times I felt that way. Gene was always the first person I wanted to tell everything to. And with that memory, there it was again.

Grief.

I could almost hear its maniacal laugh, reminding me of one of the thousands of different ways I miss Gene and relied on him.

I could count on Gene for a celebratory or comforting hug depending on the news. A dinner out to hear every exciting detail or words of comfort, downplaying whatever failure or loss I was feeling. A kiss and another hug let me know not only was I going to be OK, but that what really mattered was who was holding me. No sense of failure, pain, or disappointment could penetrate the success and perfection of us.

My eyes are burning with tears but it's not grief. It's the understanding right this minute that while Gene may not be here physically to wrap his arms around me, I feel them as I write this. And I realize we can add "grief" to the list. No failure, pain, disappointment or grief can penetrate the success and perfection of us. We are still perfect. I am still loved and cared fir by the only man I ever truly loved.