Looking for You.

After May eighth, you were not in the apartment in which we lived the past year.  Your clothes were still in the closet.  Your to-do list was on your desk.  Under your laptop, I found the Mother’s Day card you had planned to give me.

I spent five days by your side in a cardiac unit and three days in a hospice.  I held your hand and talked to you.  You did not respond.  I don’t know if you were still there or not.

I went to our home at the retirement community, but you were not there.  It was empty and still.  There is a large stack of never used jigsaw puzzles next to your desk.

I flew north and drove to the city in which we spent most of our married life.

I drove past our former homes, but I didn’t see you.  I knew you had not been there recently as the bushes were not properly trimmed.

I arrived at the cottage, but you weren’t there either.  It was cold one morning, and I had to start the fire in the pot-bellied stove.  You used to get up and start the fire, and then crawl back in bed with me as we snuggled to stay warm.

Your cousin’s wife died, and I went to the memorial service without you.  You were not there to visit with your cousins and reminisce about your childhoods together.

I went to the cemetery where we buried your ashes.  I told myself I was going to think about what type of headstone would be best.  Of course, I thought only of you, even though I know you are not there.

I stood there and wept.  I watered a plant that remains among the dying floral arrangements.

I wept again.

I know you are in heaven and that you are free of pain and problems.

I also know you are not here…not anywhere so that I can see you or talk with you.  You are not out on a run or away on a business trip.  Since meeting you 56 years ago, I have never gone this long without some form of communication with you.

I weep again…

and again.