Three Months Since Jack's Passing

Peoples, It has been 3 months since Jack's passing, but, with the dropping of my last bundle of his remains into Puget Sound on Sept. 13th, I feel like it is truly now only two weeks.

I had not anticipated the return to the original level of pain and lost; I didn't think I could hurt that much again. I did and do. And, although I saw some progress prior to the burial, I see myself almost at the beginning, again. I'm easily in tears and I'm not mentally processing well. I do sleep better, but only with a sleep aid, and appetite is still not back, and thus, weight is about 10 pounds lighter. (What a dilemma: I need one pant size smaller now, but will eventually be back to "me normal," which is baggy now. Baggy-and-not-spend-money-now vs. Pants-that-fit-and-spend-money-now-but -$$-will-be-wasted-later. Going with baggy and safety pins on the waist band.)

Fall and the slow loss of long sunshiny days has always been difficult for me. It feels worst now. The earlier dusk is the time that I am so missing Jack. It seems with daylight I can find much to do. Dusk and darkness are more of a struggle. Winter is coming and I'm trying to remember all the things we/HE did to winterize the cabin. I've got the wood for both places for heating the stoves, and I proudly checked that off the list. But, I start to second-question myself, "Is it enough?" and that load of sole-responsibility takes on more weight. I so need that second opinion, so need it.I talk to him often, asking for guidance. "Is this right, Jack?" "Help me, Bubba, I've never done this before, " and the proverbially, "Oh, sh*t, Jackson, what do I do now?" when presented with something new and probably costing money. Sometimes, I hear an answer, but more often than not, it's more of the feeling, "You can do it" and "Trust yourself." How can someone get to 56 years old and not done so much, know so little, and feel so uncomfortable with being alone? I dunno, but I'm there.

I started to put HIS cabin garage into order and I'm always asking him, "Where do you want this?" or "Should this go here or there?" I almost want to apologize to him for not knowing, for not having that conversation sooner. I so want it to be the way he wanted it. No, that's not quite right: I want it perfectly the way he would have wanted it. And, then, my heart and mind says, "It's yours now. Do it your way." And I cry because they're right. Gads, I miss him.I was gently told that I would save something, change some, and toss others. I have gone through one drawer of his dresser and had to stop, as it was too painful to let go of some clothing just yet. I've sent some of his casual clothes to his father, who has truly enjoyed wearing his son's clothes. Otherwise, everything is still there in the closet and dresser. The few empty hangers are painful reminders that there will be more of them and eventually, it will be empty. I know it can wait; there's no rush, but there's time that I want to move forward, too, and clothing seems like a safe start. And then I learn, nothing is safe from the grief, nothing.

I had "immortalized" his tool belt with suspenders, his framing hammer, and measuring tape into a shadow box with a small metal plague, "Jack R. Reynolds ~The Builder." The frame shop doing the work really got what I wanted, what my intent was, what the meaning of those three things were. I pick it up next weekend, and will put it proudly in his garage, his finished garage. Look for it if you've ever there at the cabin.

So, 8 weeks forward, 6 weeks back, and that's how grief goes. I sometimes ask myself, "WiIl the 28th of any month eventually just be the 28th of the month and not a reminder, an anniversary?" Not for awhile is the answer, not for awhile.

In the here and now,
Tally