Posted–March 10, 2023

There is something about going back in time to read your raw and bleeding thoughts. It grounds me, it reminds me how far I’ve come alone. No one wants to hear how strong they are, or how proud they should be of themselves in this situation. I didn’t choose this, but who would?

The truth is, I am proud of myself. There were shattered pieces of my life surrounding me and I picked every one of them up to create the sloppy, sad mosaic of life I have now. And even the sadness dulls with time, but it never goes away.

This was for me at the time, a journal to keep my thoughts from screaming out of my body like razors. Now it’s a mile marker and hopefully something which resonates.

Written–June, 2020

With the first glint of dawns light you can sense the innocent morning sun dancing at your lash line. The lingering sounds of the crickets being overtaken by the waking songbirds start to bring you to the surface.

Your sleeping body beings to stretch from its dream state—a thirty second Disney-like trailer opening sequence morphs into the reality of your life. It burns in like a projector bulb through old 8mm film. This lovely picture of awakening in an enchanted cottage suddenly flashes you into a dark movie shot in Bogota, Columbia. A dark, wet, ominous alley with sinister shadows approaching you.

Sleep momentarily wiped your memory, gave you a brief respite in the arms of Morpheus.

This is waking up a widow.

There are no books you can read which teach you how to survive this journey.  I know, I watched my mother suffer this most unspeakable ordeal. She crawled with us her children beside her through a dark tunnel, over broken glass blindfolded. I lived it with her, and I still couldn’t find the map out of this abyss when it became my truth.  The tomes you can find mostly consist of “now what?” financial advice for taking over from where your husband left off in the lifetime of financial planning.

I waited for this man. I skipped through the stiff dance and awkward goodnights from ordinary men for this exceptional love. This man who from his first look at me, through his hypnotic, cerulean gaze, his first kiss, which curled my toes and gave meaning to butterflies in my stomach all the short years we were married.  I say ‘short’, it was ten years, seven months, twelve days, four hours, and thirty-one minutes. It feels short.

In life his love took my breath away, there was no doubt his death would suck the air from the entire earth for me.

I don’t have the answers, I knew I wasn’t his first love—I am honored to be his last. His weary lips mouthed those words to me before the incredible team in the local ER fought tirelessly and violently to save his precious life.

Those last pictures run past my eyes every night before I slip into the darkness of being too tired pretending to be strong. I escape to our sanctuary, our bedroom at the end of the day.

I pace the floor, I can’t sleep without him beside me.  I drift away and wake suddenly at 3:00am, reaching for him and tuck the warm body of my dog beside me.

Dear God, send me sleep, just a few hours….let me escape for now…let me find him in my dreams and dance one more time…

Much Love,

Dana Devine