A voice, some one's, tells me to look at my nature journal~ the one that morphed from daily sightings to record of our last month together. I had written, bleary-eyed, at the end of each day the happenings and snippets of our conversations. From the pages I heard her voice as I read the words of progressive days: "My sweetie pie, my sweetie pie." "I know this is hard for you."From the pages, my healing begins to take shape as I am reminded of my full presence in her hours and days of need, of the blueprint agreement my soul made to hold her in the light as her life went dark. I am reminded of our continual hand-holding, her wry humor, the countless declarations of love.
I begin to understand, my guilt over the small things I could not grasp quickly or could not prevent is unnecessary. That the largesse of my fussing and company likely rendered the small moments inconsequential.
And so, a layer of guilt is released. I wonder if more guilt lies dormant.
There is a yearning inside for life.