Save a Seat for Grandpa

I’m into month five of my Kahuna-less life. The finality – the emptiness - is sinking in. I have adjusted to the sound of silence in our home. Charlie has altered his routine to include an almost daily midnight walk upstairs to spend part of the night in our bedroom – something he never did when George was here. He sleeps on the floor on George’s side of the bed, and his presence as I round the corner toward the bathroom each morning is a welcome sight.

LPM's birthday, 2017 at Disney California Adventure. Our happy place. Cheers.

I am adept at pushing my grief further behind the façade of normalcy, but have yet to experience a tear-less day. My lifelong penchant for remembering the details of “what we did one year ago today” is now a pain-inducing reflection of how beautiful my life WAS, and how quickly our happily ever after became a nightmare of unthinkable proportions.

I also find joy. I know George wants me to be happy, and I am doing my best to please him. The joyful distractions are a constant reminder of my most cherished possession - my extraordinary village. Daughter, Son, Son-in-Law, Nieces/Nephews, Sis-in-Law, Cousins and Friends, Friends, Friends. Paula’s Angels. They deserve a future blog post! I cannot imagine surviving George’s loss without them.

There are three Angels on Earth who bring me joy with each smile, hug and “Hi Gigi!” - Mighty M, Rambunctious R, and Kewpie Doll K. The two youngest will only remember their wonderful Grandpa through our stories and photos. But M remembers...

Since That Day, M routinely poses questions – “Gigi, do you miss Grandpa?” “Gigi, do you wish Grandpa didn’t die?” I answer his questions honestly, and simply. We have also had more intense conversations, in which he has informed me, “My teacher said Heaven is way up high, so Grandpa can’t hear you,” to which I counter, “I’m going to keep talking to him anyway, because I think Heaven is at My House, like you told me one day.” After one particularly “heated” debate on this subject, I looked to the sky and said, “Hi Grandpa.” My Mighty M followed suit, and with a quivering lip said, “I miss you, Grandpa.” In that moment, I realized his questions to me were actually his personal feelings - "I miss Grandpa. I wish Grandpa didn't die." I knelt to hug him and we shared our love – and loss – of a wonderful man. M remembers…

George and I had a love affair with Disneyland. It was one of our first special dates, when admission and a book of tickets was a whopping $4.75. And parking was fifty cents! Today that will buy you a churro!

We introduced Nieces and Nephews and, later, Son and Daughter to the happiest place on earth. We loved seeing the magic of “Walt’s Place” through their eyes. Once they outgrew family visits to Disneyland, my Kahuna and I rekindled the child within us and continued our trips to the Magic Kingdom. We eagerly anticipated the day when we could start taking our grandchildren. Those adventures began when M and R were two years old. Sadly, little granddaughter K never had the opportunity.

Rambunctious R's first Disneyland trip.

Last month, seeking a distraction guaranteed to bring happiness, I made the decision to take M on a Disneyland adventure with “Geege” – his nickname for me. It was my first-ever visit to the park as the only adult, and at M’s ripe old age of 4 ½ , I was confident I was up to the task. Backpack, check. Water, check. Wet wipes for sticky churro fingers, double check! Ready, set, go!

My sweet Mighty M remembers his Disneyland trips with Gigi and Grandpa. His favorites? Spinning in the teacups. Driving the Autopia cars with Grandpa.

Taking in the sights of It’s a Small World (cue annoying ear worm!). Holding on to Grandpa as we sailed down the waterfalls on Pirates of the Caribbean (Drink up me hearties, yo ho). Flying in circles with Dumbo the elephant.

Now that he’s reached the height requirement, M’s interests have expanded to thrill rides on the relatively tame Disneyland roller coasters (cue a green Gigi!).

As we enjoyed the familiar sights, my little man recalled previous visits – and clearly felt the absence of his familiar sidekick. “I remember Grandpa at Disneyland,” he commented. It wasn’t an unexpected remark, as he has felt George's loss deeply, and is processing it as best he can – with the comfort and guidance of remarkable Daughter and Son-in law. His comment prompted a conscious effort on my part to “bring” Grandpa with us throughout the day, thus beginning a series of enthusiastic exclamations as we made our way from one attraction to the next – Me: “Do you know who loved this ride?” M: (at first puzzled with my query) “No, who?” Me: “Grandpa!” His face lit up as we enjoyed each ride, and I silently fought back tears as we shared our wonderful day at a favorite place.

Fist bumps with Pluto. Grandpa's favorite character.

Guess who loved the trumpet player!

By end of day, M was asking, “Was this one of Grandpa’s favorite rides?” My heart soared as I saw my little man turning his grief for what he had lost into the joy of remembering the fun he had with Grandpa. As we waited in line for the last ride of the day, he turned to me. “Gigi, I think Grandpa is here with us.” I couldn’t hide my joy, as I said, “I think he is too!” He looked to the heavens and shouted, “Hi Grandpa!” Be still my broken heart. My sweet M had found joy too. “Gigi, I think Grandpa just touched my head.” I thought the day could not get any better.

But it did! As he climbed into the cozy compartment of Big Thunder Railroad and sat down, I asked M to scoot over to make room for me. With complete sincerity, he moved only slightly before exclaiming “I’m saving a seat for Grandpa!”

We laughed with delight and screamed with surprise at each twist and turn. I held my Little Man close, and remembered my Big Man. Always sitting beside me. Keeping me safe. Celebrating the joys of our past, and guiding me through the sorrows for as long as it takes. Honey, I will always save a seat for you.

Grateful? Thankful? Depressed

This weekend celebrates the transformation of Casa de Hultman into a "faux fall" spectacular. As a native SoCal girl it’s my way of anointing every room with the symbols of my favorite season - while the A/C combats the hot Santa Ana winds, and backyard citrus trees bear the ripening bounty of oranges, avocados, and tangerines on their perpetually green boughs. Throughout the house, orange, gold and auburn replace the cool summer hues. Pumpkins abound, and happy jack-o’-lanterns await their October addition to the rites of autumn. By November, bountiful cornucopias will take their place on the mantle.

NYC 2016. Central Park in Fall. Nothing like it!

Our 2016 NYC trip, and "real" fall color. Breathtaking!

Do I want to decorate this year? I have asked myself that question over the past few weeks - my heart still aching as I wander through our home - alone. Am I ready to put up the reminders of the season we both loved, in my Kahuna-less house? I wavered between avoiding every reminder of what I lost, and going into "full-on" fall decorating mode as a reminder of what used to be.

Friendsgiving 2017. Grateful. Two weeks before The News

After some joy-focused meditation, and the realization I had to accept my new normal (I have come to hate that phrase), I made the decision to pull out the fall décor. Every dried/preserved/imported leaf, pumpkin and seed pod! I marked the Labor Day weekend by festooning the house with its usual autumn splendor.

There was one difference…

I struggled with the words used on decorative signage that had previously expressed my gratitude for this season of thankfulness. Grateful? Thankful? Blessed? In my current raw state, these words tugged at my heart. Don’t get me wrong - I am grateful for my village who is watching out for me and giving me space to grieve; thankful to my children and grandchildren for reminding me that George and I created a beautiful family; and blessed to have had so many years with the love of my life. But the predominate sentiment of this season of “firsts” isn’t found on any Pinterest page or home store shelf. Instead of Grateful, Thankful, Blessed, my sign would read Heartbroken, Lonesome, Depressed.

Stores abound with signage of the season. 

 As Daughter and I shopped for even more fall decor yesterday, I felt a tinge of resentment as the signage of the season bombarded my fragile senses and pierced my already broken heart. I turned my attention away from the words that imbued their sentiment, in favor of scented candles, metal baskets and dried flowers. Then I turned a corner to find this framed message...

This. Is/Was. Us.

"It was one of those love stories that people will talk about for years to come."

My Kahuna was suddenly with me. Reminding of me of all that I had been given in my lifetime. How grateful I was for walking into English class 50 years ago and meeting my best friend. How thankful I am to have found my perfect love. How blessed was the life we had together. And I realized he is always with me. He had led me to the Most Perfect Sign. Daughter saw me stop in my tracks and immediately offered consolation as I melted in her arms. I had the love story of a lifetime - and as I learned so suddenly - none of us know when our “lifetime” will end. The George and Paula love story is timeless. And life goes on, as do the seasons. This year of firsts will bring anguished tears of sadness, but I will surround myself with the decorations and symbols of the season my Kahuna and I cherished. And I will smile between the tears.

Keep Calm and Decorate, Decorate, Decorate!

I’m reinventing the meaning of Grateful, Thankful, Blessed this year. I’m not sure I can bear to see the words blatantly displayed in the house yet, but I know George is watching. He is GRATEFUL I am going to celebrate this season we both loved, THANKFUL I won't be alone, and BLESSED he made the most of his simple, yet meaningful life.

Here's to our favorite season, honey. Feel free to visit any time. I'll leave a candle burning for you.

I Want to See You Dance Again

I know my family and friends want me to be happy again. They see Lonely Paula Marie and it pains them to witness my emptiness. I am so thankful my village has taken me under their collective wing, and even more appreciative none have played the “It’s time to move on” card – at least not to my face. I have promised to keep the door open to counseling options. For now, my dates with this blog are helping me process my transition to Paula, Party of One…

When Neil Young's Harvest Moon kept randomly popping up on Pandora, I started listening more closely to the lyrics. It had to be a #KahunaSign. George may as well have been singing the lyrics in my ear as we danced. “I’m still in love with you, I want to see you dance again…”

Our last dance. Wiping a Kahuna tear.

My happy place in his arms.

The last four months have taught me a lot. I now truly understand how debilitating grief can be. I know what loneliness feels like. I can be very present on the surface and completely numb and distracted inside. I still struggle with a reply when asked how I am “feeling/holding up/coping/managing”. I offer ambiguous non-answers most of the time. “I’m well” “Doing okay” “Taking one day at a time”. I am skillful at getting “gussied up” and putting on a happy, playful facade when needed. Yet the occasional crack in my voice or tear rolling down my cheek often betray me, and provide the authentic answer. “I feel empty/sad/lonely/vulnerable/unsettled, thank you for asking.”

Smoke and mirrors, folks.

As accurately as I count each day without George, I am equally unable to remember what I “Do” from one day to the next. Wake up – early - and let the reality of the empty side of the bed sink in. Try to remember my dreams, hoping to recall a “visit” from George (four visits and counting!). Feed Charlie while I make tea. Check my phone alerts for any breaking news, and scan social media. Read email. Protein shake or other simple breakfast. Take Charlie for a walk. Sit in what was George’s office and face the new business/financial responsibilities of widowhood. Do something – errands, appointments, household chores, perhaps lunch with friends. Feed Charlie. Do something else. Or do nothing. Eat dinner, if I remember to. Channel-surf in search of mindless entertainment. Reading is still impossible due to widow's fog (yes, it's a thing). Turn off the lights. Go to bed.

The “Somethings” that fill those blank spaces in every 24 hour block are hard for me to remember. When Son or Daughter asks, “What did you do today, mom?” it takes me a minute to process a reply. I know I did something. But what was it? I guess the best answer is I survived another Kahuna-less day.

Do Something. I keep telling myself I must. I started making plans and saying yes to invitations from friends and family, and have suddenly found myself with my Fall calendar filled with trips. The recent Las Vegas outing with N, as her plus-one for a wedding. A Minnesota visit with Daughter and family – to tend to the Grands and the cavalcade of equipment that accompanies a toddler and preschooler on a four hour flight. A road trip to the San Francisco Bay Area with Sister-in-law, followed by four days in NYC with Nieces, and all the excitement the Big Apple has to offer. But wait, there’s more! I’m headed to San Diego before Thanksgiving, determined to walk another 60 miles over three days (my 16th time) in the Susan G. Komen 3-Day, an event George and I had done together since 2004. And did I mention concerts and musical theater? Is there such thing as doing too much?

Clearly my current “Something” is a bi-polar existence – agonizing alone-ness followed by manic event overload. I had not set out to cram my calendar (and put a dent in my bank account!) with events that take me away, but that’s what happened. And yet I still feel empty. It’s surely fodder for an interesting therapy session – if I can fit it in!

Today I Did Something! I planned my next journey. It will be difficult – at times impossible - and always emotional. I bought the “ticket” on the day I marked Week 18 without my Kahuna. It will take me deep into my soul. A series of 21 guided meditations to help me find the path to joy again. I know it’s the journey George most wants me to make. My heartbreak is his. He faced his fate with only one regret – he knew the sorrow the kids and I would feel when he left us. I owe it to him to find my new happiness within. No amount of travel or distraction will fill the void in my heart. I must take this inward journey and find my joy again.

I know my Kahuna is with me. Every moment of every day. Every step along the way. I will dance again. Find happiness again. Honey, I miss you so much it’s hard to breathe. Happiness is the Something I can’t begin to imagine yet. But I’m going to try. Because I’m still in love with you.

Our Perfect Opera Nights - Time to Say Goodbye

In February, while George was at war with cancer, a special friend sent me a link to a video along with a message: “I heard this song,  Ed Sheeran Perfect Symphony with Andrea Bocelli  and want to dedicate it to you and George. I can picture you guys dancing barefoot together in the kitchen, having a glass of wine and holding on to each other.” She knew us well. 

Perfect lyrics. Perfect voices.

George and I were raised to appreciate a wide variety of music genres. Our depression-era parents introduced us to the Big Bands and swing, which fed George’s future love affair with the trumpet. We grew up on 50’s and 60’s rock and roll, and played the music of the 70’s as the soundtrack of our early years as young lovers. Jazz and blues found their way into our lives as well, and an occasional country song always reminded George of his mother.

My Kahuna and I didn’t need a date night to find a reason to turn up the volume and take a spin – or slow dance. With the right music, he would take my hand and our dance party of two began. Slow dances in his arms. I felt loved there. Happy. It was perfect.

One musical style can’t be traced to either family’s catalog of vinyl that spun on the hi-fi’s of our childhood. Yet it became a special part of the George and Paula story - Classical and Opera. The Three Tenors and Ravel’s Bolero, among others, became the musical background for some very special evenings…

Opera Nights, we called them. Candlelight. Wine or snifters of brandy. Speakers cranked up with the music of full symphony orchestras, and a blanket by the fire.  With each CD selection George would “conduct” the orchestra, throwing his head back in complete rapture, as the symphony translated a series of notes on a page into mesmerizing music. He would educate me on the placement of each instrument group on the stage (his beloved trumpets in the rear due to their overpowering volume). We listened carefully to identify the instrument added to each repetitive melody of Ravel's Bolero and felt the power and sensuality of the crescendo. It was perfect.

Our Opera Nights continued with arias sung by the likes of Luciano Pavarotti, Jose Carreras, Placido Domingo. But our favorite Opera Night offering was Time to Say Goodbye, with Andrea Bocelli and Sarah Brightman. As candles flickered, we lay together, not understanding anything but the one lyric in English, yet completely under the spell of the passion expressed through their voices. Some of our most romantic nights-out were a night-in with music and dancing in the dark. They were perfect.

Our Kahuna size Christmas tree. 

We allowed our opera night ritual to slip away the past few years. We had begun a new tradition two years ago that was equally romantic and memorable. Under the illumination of our Christmas tree, with the gentle crackle of the fireplace logs, we spread a blanket and lay in each other’s arms as Christmas music played. Bing Crosby's White Christmas was George’s all-time favorite holiday song, and it became our dance worthy moment that special Christmas. It was perfect.

The memories of these intimate, simple-yet-extraordinary moments are precious. As much as my heart breaks that there will be no more Opera Nights – no more magical Christmas moments, I hold tightly to the memories, and close my eyes trying to recapture their intimacy. 

If I can share a piece of advice to my readers it would be this: create your special traditions. Make them yours. Make them memorable. Make time for them. Make them PERFECT! You never know when it will be time to say goodbye.

Footnote: As I made the final edits to this post before publishing, Perfect by Ed Sheeran began playing on my Pandora station. I love #KahunaSigns. Perfect!

Filling the Hole in My Heart

Are you getting tired of Poor Pitiful Paula? Do you question why I still cry daily? Sleep with his pajamas under my pillow? Forget to eat dinner? Is my grief depression depressing you? George’s death has stolen “me”. In its place is the actor portraying Paula, going through the motions each day with smiles that hide the huge, unfillable hole in her heart. Read on if you dare…

Sixteen weeks. Yes I still count in weeks. You would think it’s getting easier. Think again. I may have adapted to the new routine of life alone, but each day brings with it a new challenge – another reminder of the emptiness I feel. Yesterday it was saying goodbye to George’s car. Another piece of my Kahuna was gone. Who knew the sight of an vacant space in the garage would evoke tears!

What happened to the “woman formerly known as Paula”? Try as I might to reconnect with her, she’s nowhere to be found. Instead I am watching my new, and until a few months ago unthinkable, life being played out by an actor. The day I became Hultman, party of one, Paula disappeared. My body double took over, going through the everyday routine of life, but somehow detached from her new reality. My life is a Hallmark movie!

The trailer would go something like this….”She was an insecure teenager who dreamed of finding her true love. He was the guy everyone knew – the cool kid – and, she thought, the kind of boy who would never pay her a second look. Until one day, when their paths crossed and their lives changed forever. A love story for the ages, until… the doctor delivered the devastating news. Their perfect life together came to a sudden, tragic end. Now she struggles coming to terms with her new life. How will she face her future – alone – without her one true love?”

With each passing day I feel George’s loss differently. More permanently. He’s not coming back. He won’t wear the closet full of clothes I can't part with - yet. No more “Opera Nights” (the subject of a future blog). While I know his absence is permanent, my brain is still programmed to include my Kahuna. I catch myself using plural pronouns – “We have a dog,” “Our house is just around the corner.” This detachment from what I know to be reality keeps the actor Paula on the payroll!  I may sound completely off the rails, and I can’t expect others to understand this double life I live – unless they, too, have been down this path.

But wait. Don’t give up on me yet. There is a glimmer of hope. I’m finding comfort and guidance in daily meditation. I’m also feeling moments of inner strength. An occasional sense of calm. They're fleeting - and welcome. Perhaps the actor depicting me is gaining confidence. She is channeling her inner Kahuna and learning to take on his strengths as her own. They are baby steps to be sure, but something is happening – S-L-O-W-L-Y – bringing my impostor closer to the authentic Paula 2.0. 

That hole in my heart? It’s still there. It will always be. But instead of sinking into the emptiness, I’m beginning to imagine it being filled with all the beauty of George’s spirit as he passes it on to me. His love. His strength. His courage. His confidence that I can live life without him. Honey, I’m trying. I really am. As long as you're within me - filling my empty heart.

With This "Ring"- I'll Be Brave

Braver, stronger, smarter, loved. These four attributes speak to me every day, from a plaque a dear friend gave us when George was first diagnosed with the evil killer that took him so quickly. Two “encounters” in the past few weeks have demonstrated to me that one of these characteristics has not been in my wheelhouse. Bravery. My protector is gone, and since That Day three months ago I’ve discovered a lot about myself. Instead of feeling brave, my new life has made me feel unimaginably vulnerable...

It began with a knock at the door in the early morning hours of an otherwise uneventful Friday morning. I was awake, in bed with my morning coffee and my goofy golden, Charlie, next to me. Hearing the doorbell before 8 o’clock in the morning was completely out of context, but not particularly alarming. We have lived in our neighborhood for 30 years, and the handful of untimely knocks at the door were always met by the burly presence of my Big Kahuna - with innocuous outcomes. Yet on this day, I had to make the decision, and I made the wrong one.

As I grabbed my robe and went downstairs, Charlie at my heels, I pondered who might be on the other side of the front door. Our neighbor perhaps? One of the kids who didn’t have their key? The placement of the door’s peephole is higher than my 5’4” frame, and unsuspecting Paula didn’t have the presence of mind to take a tip-toed peek at who I was about to find on my front porch. Instead I opened the door. There in front of me stood a stranger, dressed formally, as if he were on his way to church.

I was caught off guard, and in hindsight should have immediately closed the door and locked it. Instead, I looked at him in confusion and uttered one word, “Yes?“ Silence. He didn’t say a word, and simply stared at me, expressionless. As my mind raced for what felt like forever, I eventually saw through the 38 or so years of passed time. It was someone who had been one of George‘s friends about 45 years earlier. Our then-close friendship had ended on a sour note in the 80s, and this person disappeared without a trace. And he had never, ever been to this house. Yet somehow he had found me (thanks/no thanks Google) and as I soon realized, had fabricated a story to take advantage of my vulnerable, new widow status.

The entire encounter, the details of which I will not share here, left me shaken. It was also my wake-up call, and within days I had a new Ring doorbell and flood light, installed by Son, with admonishments NEVER to open the front door without checking the live camera first.

The first test of my fancy new security system - and my second test at bravery - came last weekend. Once again I was home alone with Charlie, when my housekeeper called with some concern. Two strangers, a man and woman, had just appeared at her apartment looking for ME! How they associated her address with me is still a mystery. They indicated they were former clients of George, looking for their legal file. Red flag alert! Of course she was wary, and without sharing any information about me, offered to take their name and contact information to pass along. When they refused, she was even more concerned. She said they mentioned my current street (which she would not confirm), and she called as soon as they left to warn me they might be on their way. Her son captured a photo and sent it to me. 

I called daughter to share the unsettling encounter. As we talked, the now familiar Ring chime alerted me to someone in my long driveway. I peeked out the window as I awaited the video feed. It was them! And I panicked.

There was no bravery. Only fear and a sense of utter vulnerability. Were they really former clients? Why did they refuse to provide their contact info earlier? They didn’t look threatening. In fact, if my housekeeper had not forewarned me, I probably would have answered the door - to my entire family and friend’s consternation! Instead I froze. 

Phone in hand, with Daughter still on the line, I clumsily tried to activate my Ring app, but was sadly unfamiliar – and too shaky – to access the camera or microphone feature. So I stood silent as Daughter screamed to me through the phone not to answer the door and to call police. I did neither. I felt like a child, alone and frightened, wishing someone were there to protect me. I wanted George so much in that moment. From his urn just feet from the door, I suspect he was screaming at me too. Don’t open the door!

After they left, two officers arrived (Daughter had indeed called!) to review the captured videos and determine if further action should be taken. Neither the police nor I had enough information to determine the intent of my “visitors”. The officer recommended I use the speaker feature on my new high-tech doorbell to communicate with visitors from now on. He also suggested I invest in a couple Beware of Dog signs for my gates - a recommendation made while Charlie lay at the officer's feet, on his back, inviting a belly rub - garnering chuckles from us all!

Friends rallied around me the night of this last encounter - my Cavalry - and circled their protective wagons, complete with dinner and drinks in hand. We practiced the use of all of my new, high tech equipment. With a few dress rehearsals under my belt, and some trepidation that these strangers may reappear, I’m going to channel my inner Kahuna next time I hear the familiar Ring chime. 

As frightened as I was in both encounters, I was equally mad at myself for my lack of courage and common sense in the face of perceived danger. These two events have proven to me that Paula 2.0 has to “woman up”. Choose bravery over fear. Confidence over vulnerability.  I have to protect myself now. The front porch welcome mat has been replaced with a “Beware of Dog – and LPM ” sign!

I Felt You

I felt you. On what would have been our 44^th anniversary, I lay in bed - on your “side” for the first time since you left - closed my eyes and “touched” you. I started at the top. Ran my fingers through the soft, thick hair around the back of your head – once the beautiful blond of youth, turned white with time. You had marveled at the preponderance of follicles that resided back there, yet had departed the parts north decades earlier! Thankfully you ditched the strategic comb-over in the 80’s and embraced the bald. 

As I lay, eyes closed, in the quiet stillness that is now the soundtrack of our home, I rubbed that beautiful top of your head where there’s more scalp than hair. I thought back to That Day when I stroked that spot as tears fell – when I couldn’t stop touching you. Couldn’t walk away.  

I continued to your forehead and felt the furrows just above your eyebrows. Gently stroked your brows to tame the errant hairs. I ran my hands along the side of your head then touched your ears. Each and every fold. I softly whispered “I love you”. I cupped your cheeks and felt the sandpaper-like, end-of-day whisker stubble. As I touched your nose, I imagined the soft exhales of your breath, and I longed for you. I reached your beautiful soft lips. The lips that have caressed me for so many years. Soft and full. Gentle. Perfect. I kissed them and didn’t want to leave.

I touched your chin and neck as my hands made their way to your shoulders. Big, broad, strong shoulders. You carried the weight of others’ troubles on them. Never complaining, always willing to ease their burden. 

My hands continued down your arms. They were once again strong, not weakened by the evil beast that is cancer. I could feel the hairs of your forearms and the leathery skin of a man who had worked hard his entire life. When I got to your hands I clutched them in mine - they were almost twice the size - and we clasped fingers. I heard our rings clicking on each other’s. I held tight - hesitating to let go. It was one of our simple gestures of expressing our love. We were good hand holders weren’t we?

As I returned to your shoulders I wrapped my arms around your neck. The embrace I knew so well. Where I felt safe. Loved. As I reached your chest. I stopped to feel your heart beating, and let my hands rise and fall as you took gentle, relaxed breaths. I reached your belly. The one that shook like a bowl full of jelly when you were Santa for so many Christmases. I gave you a lot of grief about your belly, didn’t I? I’d give anything to put my hands on it again.

My hands continued to caress you – my one and only - the man I loved for so many years. I felt every part of you. Every. Single. Part. It was tender, sensual, and beautiful. 

As my hands reached your strong legs I imagined walking side by side, your confident stride telling the world you were there to take care of things. And your feet. You loved foot massages, and I spent some time holding each foot in my hands softly rubbing each toe.

I could feel you, yet you weren’t there. Or maybe you were. I’d like to think you are with me - is Heaven at my house as Max suggested? The quiet has never been quieter, the emptiness has never felt emptier.

Sometimes I wonder how you would grieve, had our fates been reversed. Would you struggle with the solitude? Would you grieve silently, or be an open book as I am? Would you cry every day? Would you be able to get through a phone call without the voice muting lump in your throat? Wander aimlessly through the grocery store trying to shop for one? Would you hug the pillow next to you pretending it was me? Sit alone in the house, TV muted, the only sound to be heard a gentle tick, tick, tick of the wall clock?  Would you go to bed each night relieved to have survived yet another day without me, and ask me to visit you in your dreams?

Oh how I miss you, My Big Kahuna. I’m doing the best I can without you. And I still feel you in my life. Please come visit me in my dreams.