Author: Joy Hurt

Thursday last, I sat waiting as so many Seniors do. We wait for many sad, happy, frustrating, unexplainable, funny, terrifying, and peaceful things. I was waiting for my friend to arrive. A HEART FRIEND as a student once described special bonds that we form with very few in life. This kind of friend is of the deepest kind, covering you with love, protection and things you need when you need them. I am blessed with this kind of friend that was visiting on the 6 month anniversary of VST’s death.

I remember when we met. It could have ended badly. You see, we loved the same guy. VST loved her first and she had an 11 year jump on me in this situation. While my love was unfolding in new and exciting ways, hers was deep, steady, and rock solid. They shared a history of which I was not a part. It was up to me to honor that and find a way to create new memories we would cherish decades later. She had him at their first Hello on May 25, 1976. She was K to me, and oldest Daughter to VST.

The doorbell rang, and there she was, the best hugger and friend, knowing the day would be tough. Intuitive and gracious, she had cleared her schedule for the next few days to come hang out and remember our VST/DAD. We each owned separate memories of our man, that brought a more complex picture to light when shared. She was an hour earlier than I thought she would be, after a six hour drive. In a moment of highly energized happiness, the doorbell rang again. I really didn’t hear it, and in a gentle way, she said I should check.

As I opened the door, out popped T. This bulk of a man standing in my doorway completed the Momento Perfecto. T was K’s other half. A dear friend and rock to me since 1987. Smart, strong, problem solving T. When I met him, long ago, the connection we had was real and authentic. I never had to pretend around him, smiling and cheering his accomplishments, which were vast. His connection with VST was a bond that is as deep as time passed and eternity to come. He could have claimed VST as his own, meeting him first on May 25, 1976 as VST’s only biological son and K’s twin. He could have warned his SIS to steer clear of the new gal in Dad’s life, but, he didn’t. He had every right to, but he opened his heart to me and my boys, J and D. The Three Amigos were off and huddling at the first meeting. The seven of us rolling through happy in our red VW van. Here he was in my doorway, smiling and glad they got me good. K hadn’t mentioned they BOTH cleared their lives to come comfort ME.

Here I was, StepMom, but our steps had led me to Friends. How very beautiful and blessed it is to call them FRIENDS of the HEART kind.

When VST got sick, we had been feral parents, holding hands and running towards life. Illness slowed that to a standstill. We hadn’t known how serious things would become, but, T and K were on it. They came every weekend to visit. They made us calmer, happier, and less scared. They brought life of a vibrant kind to a very frightful enviorment and most importantly, they made VST/DAD’s heart smile. By coming, they brought FAMILY to our home, which healed and mended us all in ways we didn’t know needed fixing.

To me, they will always be my Kids. They are anything but kids or children.

Tim is a funny, logical, brilliant, and handsome knockoff of VST. He is a wonderful father to three beautiful kids that will someday ask him not to refer to them as kids anymore. He is driving every aspect of his own version of the red VW bus, making sure their familial path is on target. He loves is sweet M with all his strength for the beauty she is in and out. He grieves for the loss of his Dad deeply. He is a 6’6” softy to the core. When we are together, it is my hope just for a minute, he can put down his heavy load, and be our kiddo again. The freedom of childhood can be revisited while you still have a mom friend who calls you a kid.

Kim is an exquisitely beautiful and fierce woman not to taken lightly. She is funny, sensitive, kind, and thoughtful. To me, she is the Friend Daughter I didn’t raised from birth, but fell in love with, none the less. We chose the same career in teaching, but, SHE took it and ran faster and farther. Her students are blessed to be under her wing. Her own mothering abilities shine in the faces of her two man-children. Kim is wise and patient. She skillfully releases her boys to freedom and then reels them back in when needed. She cherishes her sweet husband, J, remembering when they met in grade school. K mourns the DAD that took her to the fair as a young girl one minute, and walked her down the aisle to her future the next. She remembers that, in his eyes, she was and will be his little girl for eternity.

In past posts I have referred to The Kids. That was wrong. They are not part of a pack or a rock group. They are T and K. The best parts of their dad reflecting his brilliance, grace, honestly, loyalty, and at times, funny looks or words. They hold his memory gently and share it with me. They are strong, beautiful adults that will need to forgive me if I call them kids. In my eyes, they are T and K. All things listed above and so much more, My kids, but more importantly, my HEART FRIENDS.

Today, hug your kids and hug them again. As parents, you already know. They may be bigger, but they will always be sweet, loveable kids to us.

Dreams have always been a personal comfort and place of wonder. My traveled dreamscapes are richly diverse, with beauty unexperienced on my wakeful side. Growing stories throughout my sleep-filled nights, I awaken before light, ready to harvest my thoughts, and serving them up in text. In my dreams, I am an athletic, svelte, tall, very blonde, ageless beauty. I can rollerblade, snow ski, skateboard, and backpack the Pacific Crest Trail from Canada to Mexico in a night. I see the tiniest details and make notes on how they will enrich my writing. All in the night, while peacefully I sleep.

The thing that has escaped me night after night has been one more visit with VST. Mornings have held disappointment as I slowly wake to remember there was no magical meeting the night before. No visit on A sun-kissed island, with azure seas surrounding us, or at our kitchen table at dawn. No last kiss of passion, regret, sadness, or goodbye. Not one more gaze into eyes that held my forever, while giving me a playful wink, or THAT look, which came in many varieties. Looks I learned to translate immediately, whether they drew me in, told me to straighten up and fly right, or ended a conversation. I would settle for just one more time having eye conversations, no matter the topic. I would awake refreshed and full or other dreams, but not the one I wanted so badly. Until a few weeks ago, that is.

I went to sleep after watching half a movie. Nothing new. Oliver was making sweet sleeping-puppy sounds in his crate while I floated off to dreamland, as usual. The next morning, my wish had been fulfilled. VST and I had shared the night before.

We were visiting outdoors in a beautiful place, natural and green. We smiled and talked for most of the dream, quietly savoring the moments we were able to share. He was his younger self, and without any signs of illness. Just my Dr. H. Most of our words remain muffled, shared celestially. Their essence cocooned my heart in peace. Cancer could not rob us of this quiet conversation of souls. Most was just beyond memory’s reach, but there was a portion clearly recalled.

“Darlin, the memorial was fine. Perfect. The words and songs you chose honored our life together, and me in ways that warmed my heart.”

At that moment, I felt a wave a relief that everything was done now.

“It’s great that you sent programs and notes to all the friends that couldn’t come. Nice touch that took extra effort. Thanks for doing that. It was all just beautiful.”

“However……”

However? What was coming next? But what, VST??????? Really????

“You screwed up on one part.”

I knew it. I knew it. Even from beyond the veil, one moment remained in which VST could have done things a bit different, and definitely better. I sighed, wishing so much that he was still here.

“Please explain yourself.”

“Everyone was remembered that needed to be, except for three. Pat, Steve, and Harry. Honey, you forgot to tell them. Please. Tomorrow. Hurry. Send them special notes that explain I have gone. Do it tomorrow. Please don’t forget.”

“I promise.”

That was the revelation I had awaited for months? The only thing I could remember? Not a final, ‘I will love you forever?’ or ‘I have a place saved for you?’ No. Just a reminder than three very important men in his life needed to know he died. A former doctoral classmate, boss, and close work friend? I knew the boss and workmate from our lives spanning 1988 through 2001. Although I had heard about the doctoral friend for 19 years, I had never met him. These three people would have never come to the forefront of my brain, only because I was not VST. His friends were precious to him as mine are to me, but personal to HIM.

In the morning, I retrieved “THE BOX” from the closet. If you’re widowed, I assume you have “A BOX”, as well. I have inherited “THE BOX” from Grandparents, and even though the items inside never held a great deal of meaning to me, disposing of something treasured for so many years couldn’t happen. Now I have my own. In VST’s box, there are extra programs, prayer cards, a guest book, and sympathy cards. Every one of them is precious to me, making the box sacred. Everything I needed to complete three last notices that their dear friend was gone.

I penned special notes to each of the three men. Sealed in silver envelopes with program and prayer card, I sent the three cards on their way with love. Mission accomplished VST. You just come back anytime to discuss the missing and loving me parts. This, I handled for you. I went on with my day.

Two weeks later, I heard the mail truck outside. For those of you that still have the luxury of a personal mail box at your drive, you know what a treat it can be. I love 11:30 when I hear the mail lady starting and stopping on her way to house after house, until I hear her engine pause at mine. I went to retrieve the mail and found inside a card addressed to me.

It was a handwritten card that had been sent snail mail. The return address identified it as being from Dr. Pat. The card had a picture of the American flag, something VST respected so much. I opened it to find an entire page filled with manly printing, created with pen and ink.

Dear Joy,

So sad….he was one of the most easy going, happy-go-lucky friends I have had the pleasure to know…..Know he is in heaven….you now have a guardian angel…way too young….lucky to have traveled together….Truly hearbreaking….Am a better person for having known him.

All the sweet things one would expect until I read further.

Will be 60 next July and can retire after 35 years on police force…. CANCER…..diagnosed with leukemia 5 years ago……..dealing with various treatments…..God willing…..

VST’s real life Superman had been hit with his own version of kryptonite. No kevlar vesting could protect him from Cancer’s bullet. After all his service protect millions of people during his 35 year career, he was fighting this alone, as every cancer patientdoes. VST knew. I understood now why THIS was the important thing I needed to remember,

I held the letter in disbelief. The handwriting on the paper spoke volumes from a man I had never met. To a friendship rare and dear formed over years in a doctoral program. A man that was sent a special shout out from the beautiful shadows of my dream. A man so special, VST made sure he was not forgotten.

You just never know what dreams may hold. Or the mail box on a sunny day in September. Reach out and remind Old Friends forgotten about your loved one. Send notes in the mail, taking time to hand write your memories of their importance in your life. Stamp them. Send them. They will brighten a day, possibly giving hope when it is waning. Embrace your dreams. You never know what they will hold.

Widowhood. Six months in. I am in awe of the oldish-new woman sitting here blogging. Strange. It appears that these are my Germanic fingers pecking at the keys. Quite sure Oliver recognizes me as the same person who has fed him his meals since he became mine. The neighbors all wave to the familiar woman down the street. Old Friends and family still ring me up to find out how I’m doing. But, no, I’m not the same woman of 6 months ago. That woman died with VST and was immediately replaced with another tougher version of myself.

Unless you are a widow, and even if you are, you can’t fully know the unique path my journey has taken. In the past Covid-wrecked months, I have been on a trek through a frightful wilderness worse than any high Sierra trail. It has been so lonely and cold at times, I surely wanted to lay my body down in the snow and allow grief to devour me like savage carnivores. Having my arms torn off by real Alaskan wolves would have been less painful. So desolate and invisibly vast, no matter how I have tried to hurry along, believing I’m out of the woods, I make a small turn to the right or left, and there I am again. The path is atrociously hideous at times, and yet, totally natural. There has been no quicker way to come, no short cut, nothing more than this path that I travel by myself, even when others are present.

My words have buoyed me beyond my wildest expectations. Food, Shelter, Clothing, Friendship, Everlasting Love, Faith, Adventure, and Happiness. Those words, my port in the storm, highlight the core of the power couple that was Dr. and Mrs. Hurt. It is odd that the time has arrived to pick a new word for Month Seven. Reflecting on the words that represented us over 32 years has filled me with the comfort that beautiful memories can bring. A meadowy retreat for respite from the ravages of grief.

I revisit the past 12 months in my mind. A year ago, we had just decided to visit Cayucos on the California coast again. VST was still taking Oliver on his daily walks. We had decided to stay in VC a while longer, and just named the house The Dunmovin House for that reason. There were subtle changes in VST that I internalized as frailties of my own or, even more scary and unthinkable, of our marriage. Even if we would have known the real causes for these changes earlier, the outcome would have been the same. The only difference would have been that we would have missed our last two RV trips which held sweet memories made.

I think of Christmas last. I was sick with a cold for a week, which I so graciously gifted to VST. As we took turns caring for one another, Christmas came and went in the midst of the snow flurries on our mountain. A white Christmas for our last earthly holiday together.

With spring’s arrival, projects completed, and the last nail driven, VST finished his job. He put down his tools, being proud of his life and accomplishments. He touched so many in profoundly wonderful ways. His strength carried others through their own struggles. He loved like no other. Fierce and true. He was a loyal and trustworthy man truly worthy of being a Knight Templar. He was also a man worthy of not only the title of FATHER, but more importantly, DAD. He was imperfectly perfect to those of us that loved him longest and best, and to those that were lucky enough to call him friend. He was my Dr. H.

Through Goodbyes to VST, this new woman has now stepped out of the far reaches of my soul. Helpful. Strong. Smart. Funny. Inquisitive. And SCARED AS HELL. She came from nowhere to flourish and thrive as she put down roots immediately after VST’s death in this new little town called HOME. She is the new me. I own those attributes now, as I always did. I must admit, in recent years, I chose to rest complaisantly as a wife allowing life to pass. Along the way, I lost focus, passion, and ambition. I became a passenger in my own life story, doing that all on my own. It wasn’t especially fair to VST, although he never complained. I don’t have that option anymore. I don’t want that ME anymore. She died with VST.

Today, I choose Happiness. Faith. Strength. Perseverance. God. I am finding my way forwards. I choose not to sit and rest too long. I move onward towards positive goals for the future, creating as I continue through the wilderness of my first year of widowhood. I’m quite positive there are treacherous rivers yet to cross, with crags and crannies that could feel like they might devour my soul. But, I also know I am strong enough to stay on the path. It’s going to be okay. God and I have this, together.

As a married woman, I could have never imagined taking my wedding ring off for a minute. I’ve never been one to wear jewelry of any kind, let alone pricey stones in garish designs. My wedding band was so perfect. Simple. Comfortable. Golden. Like VST and me. Scratched through our 32 years, but still a circle. A comfort to me when VST passed, it was a reminder than the three decades shared had not been a dream, but real.

One day, in late summer, I awoke to a new feeling. I could wear this ring no longer for OUR vows were not tethered to something as earthly as a bit of gold. My ring couldn’t begin to contain something so precious, vast, and unending similar to the heavens in which my new guardian angel rested. It was band of gold that was constricting my finger and just a piece of jewelry now. I was no longer a wife, but a widow. I could wear it not a second longer. When removed, I was left with a temporarily deformed ring finger, morbidly pale and chronically constricted. The nerves were sensitive to anything that brushed across that spot on my finger screaming their protests at being exposed to widowhood. A strange sensation I was not expecting.

Six months gone, six months here, I find myself with an interest in finding friends again. I laugh with them on the phone, making plans for adventures new and foreign to me. I’m taking an interest in dressing the new woman that I am becoming. I speak in a gentler, kinder way to myself, encouraging thoughts and actions that are creating the best version of myself. I cheer for me when I am hitting things out of the park. I smile from my heart and like it. My winter has past on most days. My 65th Autumn is here, and I find myself hoping it lasts for a couple of decades, at least.

One of the last things that VST said to me in weak and quiet words was, “I want to go back to the ocean.” I think about the day I will travel to San Simeon to release him to the wind. With the final page of our story written, we’ll go their together together sharing our last and final earthly Goodbye. Today, Month Six finished, the thought is immediately shelved and encased behind glassy, tearful eyes. There is plenty of time for healing on this the first widowed year of mine.

As you read this, please cheer for me in your own way. Then, cheer for yourself and all your journey has taught you. Celebrate the love you share with important people in your life. Call them. Hug them. Laugh. Cherish the life you shared with the one you lost and travel through the wilderness of widowhood with me. Love surrounds us and we are not alone in this. We WILL come out into the clearing, and be much stronger for the journey.

Hawaii-philes. A new phrase coined describing VST and me. Through 32 years, we became absolutely addicted to the islands and all that Aloha brings with it. It started with two young lovers taking a second honeymoon in their first year of marriage. The initial fascination and love for paradise grew to much more, over the years.

It all started in 1988, when we were adorable kids. Married six months, reality was setting in. The monumental tasks of parenting a blended family of five was a bit overwhelming. It is one thing to fall in love with a soulmate. Falling in love with a parent of young kids is a very complicated dance. We had to learn to navigate the schedules and personalities of five children, ages 12-7, while not offending grandparents and extended family who held their breath while having everyone’s best interest at heart. Said onlookers had finally given up counting to 9, convinced that we married so quickly because a sixth child was on the way. Believe me, we figured that out on the first date. Five was plenty.

VST came home from work after an extremely stressful day with a brochure he had been given from a co-workers wife. “Pleasant Hawaiian Vacations. Dream the Dream. Live the Aloha Spirit”. The blue waters shown on the brochure were inviting. There was a twinkle in his eye as he asked me if I would run away with him, if only for a week. This while children played in the background and dinner was on the stove. What’s a girl to do??? Of Course!

Our first trip cost us $450 a person, including airfare from Fresno. Money well spent, that I assure you, we did not have in our budget. Six nights, seven days on Oahu. Six glorious days of adult-ing. Sleeping in. Breakfast overlooking the beach. Catamaran rides. All the cheesy things first time visitors do to get the perfect pictures they will cherish forever. We were the young couple old couples would look at and smile. I get it now. They were smiling because they remembered what the NEW was like. Sparking, tanned, trim, and sexy. We spent the week getting to know each other better. We were celebrating the one year anniversary of our Class Reunion, when we had reunited as friends. On that night, two stoic singles insisted their solitary lives were exactly what they had designed. A year later, we knew the design of our lives together was what we had been searching for.

Through the years, we visited Hawaii 30 times. It would have been a good idea to buy a place. Each time we would leave the plane the experience was the same for me. I was home. The air caressing my skin and giving life to my dried out Central Valley lungs was exquisite. No matter the weather, the feeling of returning to city life was thrilling. Farming, the demands of two full time careers needed to support the farm, pre-PsyD college courses, parenting, and still being parented were immense stressors. When a fragrant, Hawaiian rainstorm caught us out walking, we could actually stop and kiss in the middle of it. Not watch in horror as our raisin crop lay threatened on vineyard rows that seemed to go on for miles.

At first, it was annual trips. Endless searching for the right deal on the right hotel, always looking for deep discounts to get closer to ocean front. Each trip earned flight miles, and pretty soon, we were flying nearly free to hotels beach front and 50% off. Our trips got better and better, while becoming bi-annual.

Through the years, our travel experiences were the same. We had endless conversations about anything and everything. Without the stresses and strains of daily life, we could allow our brains to free range. We brainstormed new business ideas. Finally, we had time to talk about the problems in Row 72 of the vineyard and what we could do to mitigate them. We had time to marvel at the growth our children were making. We had time to gossip. We belly laughed. We could sit under a cabana and say nothing, and yet saying nothing said volumes. We were ourselves at peace.

On flights, five hours in duration, I made some observations. VST and I were the couple that was talking, holding hands, cuddled up, giggling, and whispering. We compared our airplane food. We found music channels and poked each other under cloaks of headphones, pointing and giving thumbs up. The others in the plane disappeared, leaving just us in our own world. We drank in those moments like the intoxicating elixir they were. What saddened me a little was the number of couples that were total strangers. What had life done to their visible ties? One in a book, the other on binge. I made notes to myself that we would not become like that. It would take everything we had not to.

Our best trip involved taking our kids with us when they were young olders. With a rented condo and lots of patience from everyone involved, we had the trip of a lifetime. We watched the kids enjoy their first experience flying. We watched them soak in the healing powers of Aloha and relax. We made memories that are frozen in our hearts in the most precious way. We celebrated being a family unique to us. We fought and fretted. We lost one, which found himself and came back to us after a brief trip to report him missing at the police station. We tried to capture quiet adult moments sipping a tropical drink, only to have sand-throwing hellions creep into our peripheral vision. We taught. We took. We showed the island to them through our eyes and they embraced their own visions through their own. Magical and full of our own Menehunes, our trip was one of our most precious moments together.

I always felt that if something happened to VST, when the dust had settled, I would rent a place in Oahu . For years, VST and I would notice a poor soul near Waikiki beach. We called her Cannie Annie. She was always in the same spot. All day, every day, she sat cross-legged near a walkway, smashing cans. Her skin was the nearest to tanned leather that I have ever seen. She sat, smiling, as she smashed one aluminum can after can. Maybe I would become the new version of Cannie Annie. At the very least, I would breathe in healing air, and let the Menehunes take me by the hand into their world, because I was sure without VST, my world would cease.

Covid ripped that possibility away from me and shredded it to bits. So many days, I have wanted to run, not walk to the airport and buy a one way ticket to paradise. But, paradise is closed. Fitting that the one place in which I might find my most precious memories waiting in a sunset or trade wind caress is blocking tourists. Maybe the Menehunes just had no more to give. How many souls over the years have gone to the islands taking its magic as their own? The islands are as tired as the rest of us. Pele needs to regroup. The locals need to dance for themselves for awhile. My soft place to fall disappeared.

So, in Month Five, Oliver and I took a Covid trip. Best bargain I have ever found. Aloha in the Living Room. Do Ho came and gave us a private concert. I served fresh pineapple while watching Elvis come to life in Blue Hawaii. I took out memory books from past trips, and I returned there, half the young couple that September night on Waikiki kissing under a full moon when not another soul was on the beach. During that kiss, Hawaii was all encompassing and the only place in the world we wanted to be. My trip was splendid. I didn’t need to quarantine for two weeks. Oliver didn’t need to worry about traveling in a confining crate. No masks. Just vacation time in our living room, celebrating Aloha with memories enough for a lifetime. I am quite sure Oliver noticed the Menehune discussing the fact that my world without VST didn’t cease, and that their guidance to a distance forest wouldn’t be needed after all.

Grab your own MaiTai and find your own Aloha spirit. As defined by the State of Hawaii, “Aloha is the coordination of mind and heart within each person. It brings each person to the self. Each person must think and emote good feelings to each other.” The world needs each of us to LIVE Aloha in our lives today. Remember your moment under the moonlight, and embrace it as the miracle it was and remains this very day.

Saturday morning, April 25. The eve of my major move off the mountain, exactly 17 days after VST left. We were standing, three grieving amigos, at the appliance counter of a major chain hardware store (Not Home Depot. Just sayin). Along with all my other equally pressing decisions, my new home, Winterpast, needed appliances.(King Solomon 2:10-14) Frig, range, dishwasher, washer/dryer. VST and I made the decision that all appliances would be replaced before we moved in, and I intended to carry through.

I knew exactly what I would get. My VC range was heavenly, and I wanted that exact model. The Frig needed to have the freezer on the bottom, with french doors on top. The dishwasher needed to have a food grinder and heated dry cycle. The washer and dryer needed to be full size and pretty. Kitchen stainless, washer/dryer white. As we stood in the appliance section waiting for someone to help us, I made most of my selections shortly after walking in. As the kids wandered and wondered how I would choose, I already knew what I wanted. But, what I wanted most was to get back to VC and prepare for the movers to arrive the next morning.

I had already gone through Round One with this store. Four days before, I had done the right thing and called to cancel VST’s credit card. Here is a little history.

VST and I loved remodeling things together. It was our happy spot. He had an eye for what could be and knew just how to create beautiful spaces. I could describe something to him, and he would take the idea to the next level, creativity resulting with awe inspiring projects. It took us both. It was not without a fair share of bantering, arguing, stalemates, and compromise. But, in the end, every project was a work of beauty and we looked for the next.

For the first two years in VC, I worked while VST was at home alone, with one huge project in mind. My dream kitchen. I knew that if I didn’t work, the kitchen would be put on hold. For once, I wanted to earn a project myself. I wanted to pay for every shim and handle with my own paycheck. The kitchen had been abused by the previous owners, who had cooked for their restaurant frying with peanut oil. It was a given when we bought the VC house, that the kitchen would need to be replaced, and so the project began.

VST had gone to the Carson City major chain hardware store (not Home Depot, just sayin) and in minutes, had a sufficient line of credit. Alone. Without my signature. We thought nothing of it. We had wanted the store card for the additional discount we could apply when buying cabinets, granite, installation, and all the other items needed. The limit was perfect for our kitchen budget and we went to work. Over six years, we used the card for every project we tackled on the house, always being glad we had it. We never paid a cent of interest. One of VST’s golden rules.

Getting back to me. Widowed. Clueless. Very new to the tricks of cancelling my late husband’s financial life, this chain hardware store (Not Home Depot. Just sayin) would not be helpful.

Days before the appliance purchase, seated at a mound of paperwork, to-do’s and had done’s, I called. After punching an endless amount of numbers to route me to the correct department, the dance started. I explained that I had an account, my husband had died, and I needed a replacement. The associate pounced on that.

“His account is now closed. The closing bill will arrive in 5-7 working days.”

Wait, I thought in utter disbelief. Miscommunication here. No, No, No. I need a new card to purchase the appliances on Saturday for the new house. I want the minuscule discount. Wait. It was MY work that let us pay off the kitchen. Wait just a minute.

“This account was in the name of the decedent, alone. You are welcome to apply for a new card of your own online. Sorry for your loss. Goodbye.”

I stared blankly at the phone. They didn’t just do that. No! But, yes. They did.

Going online, I filled out the screen properly, assuming that the computer would crosscheck any prior activity and my new account would have an equal credit limit. After all, it was MY job that allowed us to funnel My income to their chain hardware store (Not Home Depot. Just sayin). I waited for the computer to decide the fate of my credit limit.

My limit flashed on the screen.

$500.

This wouldn’t cover the washer I selected, let alone all the appliances. So I called back the chain hardware store plead my case(Not Home Depot. Just sayin).

“Just inquire at the store when you go to make your purchase. Perhaps the store manager will agree to raise your limit. Sorry for your loss. Goodbye.”

Back to Saturday. The kids were in shock at the speed in which I could rack up a huge bill on appliances. We had not discussed the fact that I had already picked these out in my head, as the buying frenzy occurred. A five minute walk through appliance heaven, and my order was complete. Now came the bill and method of payment.

I presented my shiny new Lowe’s credit card. Of course, I tried. With a puzzled look, the associate whispered, “This will cover $500. Do you have any way of covering the rest?”

I was handed the phone after requesting the store manager. I pleaded my case, and was then connected to Credit Customer Service. To which the answer was…

“At this time, your credit limit is $500. Sorry for your loss. Goodbye.”

It was then I found a wee bit of happiness and hilarity at this very moment. I smiled a sweet smile as I reached into my purse. The kids, not knowing how I would handle this situation, were quietly horrified. What was I reaching for???

And there it was. Platinum Visa. Financial solvency does have its rewards. I had wanted my own replacement card to honor the memory of VST. But, this would work just fine. I thanked the girl and we left. I am quite sure she wondered how this old, widowed woman in torn jeans and a tee pulled that off at the appliance counter on a Saturday morning at the major chain hardware store (Not Home Depot. Just sayin).

The moral of the story is this. Whatever you do, think before you start canceling your husband’s financial standing. Get your ducks in a row. Because, the minute you start, it is a constant response of “Canceled. Sorry for your loss. Goodbye.” Remember that the associates that are helping you are just doing their job. They didn’t write the crazy rules. They may be dreaming of a day they no longer need to work at a chain hardware store (Not Home Depot. Just sayin). Remember that there are many paths to get to a final destination. Be determined and persevere.

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Prone to decision weariness when overwhelmed, I marvel at all I have decided in my first 6 months into widowhood. There was no choice in the matter. From what I fed myself out of my Winter/Covid stocked cabinets and freezer, to whether I would live on a golf course or in a neighborhood, the decisions flew at me. Life altering and heart wrenching decisions that would have far reaching consequences.

I grieved the absence of VST. Which funeral home? Cremation? An urn? A service? Obituary? Pictures chosen with care? Proper eulogy? How many death certificates? Where to start financially? Friends to alert? Countless other, smaller details swirled in the first week. I had friends remind me to practice self care. In my case, it was all I could do to keep my daily planner close, documenting the smallest things, like breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Even at that, without choosing, ten pounds were gone. Mechanical and deliberate, I became an automaton, while making choice after choice.

The move was a choice VST and I made for ourselves when life was not irretrievably shattered. But daunting choices emerged. Which movers? Budget? Logistics? To rent the new house early? When to clean the old one? Which Internet at the new house? Where to return ATT equipment from the old? Insurance changes? Who would drive the rig to the new RV barn? All these things would have been a full time ordeal as a couple. Now, it was just me in the wilderness of Grief during Covid silence. I was choosing as fast as I could.

Our beautiful, strong, funny, grieving, blended, adult children became my comrades supreme. Just when the ability to make another decision was fading, they would call to check on me. How did they know their voices were what I needed to hear the most? Just at the right time. Always affirming that we were in this together for the long haul. In a blended family, I always knew, although VST and I chose each other, the kids had no say in the matter. Yet, we all blended into this fantastic mix of a normal family and all the ups and downs that go with that. After 32 years, they were all ours. All mine. All there supporting me. Me supporting them. In the past, there were periods where they had Facebook duels and clashes, as siblings do. But, in this situation, with me flying solo, they banded together stronger than I ever knew they could. This gilded our wedding vows made so long ago, when VST were over a decade younger than our kids were now.

My closest friends became closer, listening and giving advice when I needed it. They came to me. 6 hours one way. Multiple times. To hold my hand and find laughter. To celebrate VST’s life on his 66 birthday, when so many couldn’t because Covid endangered fragile health. They came, masks dropped, arms open, to hug an emotionally spent widow who needed them more than ever before. They knew the right things to say, even when it was nothing at all.

An easy decision helped me through the lonely days when the kids were busy with their lives, and Covid isolated me. I decided to be grateful. Morning still cloaked in darkness, before feet hit the floor, I would pray. For VST and me. For the kids. For Oliver. For goodness to come in small ways. I would be grateful for something in my life each moment I could. And then, I CHOSE HAPPINESS. Each day. Happiness. In the beginning, I faked it of course. But, I would find at least one thing morning, noon, and night to be happy about. In time, I found myself turning on the radio and singing once in awhile. I ended my draining fascination with the news, and finally turned it off all together. I talked to VST every day, and shared happiness with him as I rearranged my old life into blooms of my new one.

This choice was a deliberate decision. As a grieving widow, I would be reduced to ugly crying by the strangest things. A found pair of frayed jockey briefs. An empty pen in the desk. Pictures of landscapes in which I could transport back to the time, day, and place, remembering conversations VST and I were having while taking the shot. Tools that VST carried to fix things for me, never complaining, but saying, “It’s nothing, Darlin, fixed and done. What next?” An empty RV that slayed me every time I stepped inside, bringing me to my knees by the memories of 50,000 miles of exploring, laughing, arguing, plotting, planning, and discovering. But, in the background of my grief,were also 50,000 miles of sheer happiness and adventure, while holding each other on the journey.

As the months have unfolded, it now seems strange for me not to live in the now of happiness. I smile. Alot. Even when no one is looking. I sing when there is no one to hear. I dance in his shirt in horribly choppy, 70’s moves, knowing he is here with me, dancing in an even more awkward way then me. I laugh with Oliver and can see his relief that his old/new mom is better now. I see him relaxing more, because I have his back again. I am finding delight in my autumn garden. Always looking for something to form a happiness connection, I find that memories flood back and are now welcomed. Not painful, like swallowing a bitter pill, but comforting, warm, and delicious.

My dearest, sweet friend brought me a housewarming gift so affirming and final. “Choose Happiness” stated in metal formed in cursive. It hangs over my kitchen table as a mission statement that feeling happy IS a choice I need to make every single moment. Choose happiness for the moment right now, and remember what it looks like. Feel it, like a carmel, hot fudge sundae feeding your soul. Smooth, rich, warm, and full. Focus on the feeling and call it back throughout the day. Slowly, the feeling will become like breathing, like your pulse, or anything else constant and life supporting.

Do some events and people drain the happiness from our lives? Every day. Deal with them in the most positive way you know how. Identify those that drain you of this positive feeling and limit your experiences with them for a time. In the beginning happiness felt foreign to me, like I was cheating on VST and his passing. How ridiculous! I got a letter from a dear friend of his in which I was reminded that VST was one of the most happy-go-lucky people he knew. After all, VST’s theme song was, “Don’t Worry, Be Happy”. Although a die hard Country Western fan, this remained his theme song for our entire marriage. Don’t Worry, Be Happy.

Today, do some little thing that makes you smile, or better, snicker, or best, throw out a booming belly laugh. Dance a little, in a frenzied way in your husband’s favorite work shirt. Watch a comedian online, or a funny movie that you can’t resist smiling over. Retrain yourself to feel happiness if only for a few minutes at first. And make a choice. Because, in this wilderness of grief, there needs to be the North Star of hope, perseverance, and gratitude, with a rainbow of happiness above it all.

Willie’s Roadhouse was all new to me in the summer of 2017. While RVing with VST, I became a new fan of Country Western Music. He had grown up at Grandpa Arch Dell’s knee listening to Bob Wills and His Texas Playboys. With satellite radio in our rig, the driver had the choice of stations. Willie’s Roadhouse would play for long stretches through plains and prairies. I learned to love the songs. Alot. When the driving was treacherous, we would both belt out “Big Ball’s in Cowtown” in unison, laughing until we almost cried, because some places VST drove us took big balls, and not of the dancing kind.

Recently, I was unpacking boxes and listening to a country western station when I heard, for the first time, “You Can’t Make Old Friends”, a duet by Dolly and Kenny. A trip to Dollywood had been on our list of destinations before it might be to late to see her perform live. We were quite sure the problem would be on Dolly’s end, not ours. Boy, were we wrong. The song was about their special friendship over the years, being the OLD FRIENDS they sang about in the song.

Stopping and taking time to reflect about the message in the lyrics, I thought of the experiences I was having in an unfamiliar town while meeting new friends. Neighbors on my block were still strangers. Their houses stood like unopened presents on Christmas morning. Some were going to be just what you wanted more than anything else in the world, and others were going to hold no fascination. New connections? No connections? New service providers. The Mail Lady. Gardener. All mysterious.

Having lost VST, who would now set me straight when I needed it the most? Who would share truths a best friend would spit like darts, because they would know just what you needed to hear. Who would interrupt my crazy stories, if embellished just a little too much? Who would add the tiniest detail forgotten that would make the whole story so much better? Who would drive me nuts finishing my sentences, or in later years, color my thoughts? I have lost the best friend I relied on through my adult years. The one that saved my butt so many times. VST.

Beginning a new song, men friends would appear at the appropriate time for me. Ready to take me to coffee? Ice cream? Dinner? Each situation ripe with the appropriate expectations of conversation while prospecting for possible links, not yet knowing about the core belief and value parts of me that needed knowing for an OLD FRIENDSHIP to thrive.

I meet new friends every day. I say HI in a way that is hopeful and upbeat. I flash a smile and try to sneak a furtive peek into their eyes. Their gaze usually shifts quickly when mine is spotted. I am left to wait, hoping real friendship will develop slowly, while looking for validation that doesn’t come in ways comfortable and shared for decades.

The song goes on to discuss harmonizing with someone. My initial thoughts race back to high school choir, when VST and I would join others on key. Our voices, soprano and bass would blend together back then to form a recognizable and enjoyable song. Two YOUNG FRIENDS. Little did we know our voices would create so many harmonies throughout the years. Hello’s. Promises. Vows. Dreams. Songs. Agreements. Arguments. Apologies. Sweet night sounds. Support. Defense against enemies. Coos to grandchildren. Prayers to God. Defeat to cancer. In the end, our harmony was silenced. I miss that we could pick up a tune in the middle and go with it. Or that, we always knew what to say at the right time, in the right way, even when that was really hard to do.

The stage is mine for now, and I find I’m fumbling with the words and tune. Finding the right pitch of a person that COULD be an Old Friend, who might know just a little of the song and join in. So far, I find myself humming alone. Everything needs explanation. The tempo, timbre, texture and structure of my wants and needs in life. I, too, need to listen carefully for the notes and rhythm of theirs. Exhausting. Without VST, the silence helps me appreciate how blessed I was to have enjoyed my Old Friend for the lifetime we shared. It also makes me want that experience one more time in my life, because having Old Friends like that is something that makes life rich and worth living.

I pray each day that somewhere out there, there is an Old Friend having the same longings. That a duet waits. That hearts can indeed learn new musical genres and songs. VST always reminded me, “You can’t go nowhere on yesterday’s train”. Our song ended. Abruptly. Final notes harsh. Shrill. Quite final. New Old Friends will come around, maybe just to listen to the music for awhile.

God has me in the palm of his hand now, and someday, sooner than I would expect, I will be on my way to heaven’s gate. I know all my Old Friends will be waiting there for me. But, in my prayers, I ask that VST will be front and center, because, he is the Old Friend lost that I miss the most. We will be young again, not the way we had recently been, but the same Old Friends.

Today, call an Old Friend of yours. Really appreciate what an amazing thing friendship is. Tell them how much you love and cherish them in your life. Because, your voice is just what they long to hear more than anything else.

Bull Riding is my favorite sport. Nothing feminine about it. Snorting, slobbering, cute cowboys, amazing animals at the height of their game. Danger, suspense, twisting, turning, and amazing aerials by all involved. Dealing with two complicated real estate transactions closing hours between each other was just as suspenseful. I just wish the ride had only lasted 8 seconds.

VST and I had decided in early January, 2020, that the time had come to sell the VC house. 3300 sq. ft. of beautiful. It had been an unloved and abused repossession when we bought it at a bargain basement price. We had a vision for restoring it to grandeur, and spent 6 years doing just that. Everything in the house was dialed in to perfection for us. Actually for anyone. By the time we decided to sell, there were only two more projects remaining. We needed to have a proper laundry room and one bedroom closet. In January, these were the last two design and building projects VST would accomplish in his life. They were perfection when finished in two weeks, just like all the other projects he had completed before. If you were not told, you would have thought the closet and laundry room were original, he was that good.

The house was barely listed when it sold. We had just decided to sell as we were driving home from lunch. We had spent the morning looking at some houses with a realtor, and found two that we really liked. The discussion on the way home was devoted to the pros and cons of moving, and we decided it was time for us to get off the mountain. The new realtor would be our agent. Within five minutes, my phone rang. It was another realtor we knew. Would we ever consider selling? He had a couple that loved our home. They both worked in VC. Would we, could we, might we sell? They wanted to see the house the next day. We listed. They came. They fell in love and offered. We accepted. All within hours of us deciding to leave. Just like that.

At the same time, VST was driving, worrying about the taxes, building and fixing things, calling me Darlin, and kissing me goodnight. We hadn’t found a new house yet, and had even taken an RV trip at the end of January to a town seven hours away, spending an entire day looking at ten possible choices. VST was himself, although tired and very swollen by the end of the day. He drove the rig to and from our destination, enjoying Willie’s Road House and the trip. He promised we would see the doctor about the troublesome swelling when we got home.

Finally, we found THE house for us. One hour from VC, a single story ranch home on one-half acre of beauty. Totally landscaped with paths and walkways through mature fruit and shade trees. A lush green lawn right out my kitchen window. Bird houses and plenty of birds to raise families in them. An RV barn, interior walls totally finished. A four car garage. Three bedrooms/2 baths. 1907 sq. ft. of beautiful, promising low maintenance allowing us to continue RVing. We both immediately felt at home and made an offer, which was accepted.

We had two realtors, a buyer, a seller, us, and more paperwork than you could imagine. Our VC home had never been part of our family trust. The trust needed to be domesticated in Nevada, and that was on our to-do list. So add an attorney and more paperwork to the mix. And, so the ride began. Cancer entered the mix about two weeks after the bucking bull left the shoot. We held on for dear life with both hands as our lives seemed to spin out of control.

Double inspections, repairs, re-inspections, requests from Title Companies, realtors, buyers, sellers, and escrow companies. Appointments with the lawyer. Endless signings, needed countless times. Cleanings, walk-throughs, plans for moving to and from. Canceling old services, and starting new ones. Hiring movers and choosing THE big day.

All while VST got sick, and sicker, and sicker, and died. In nine weeks from a word I couldn’t even pronounce in the beginning. Choalangiocarcinoma. Cancer of the Bile Ducts.

I entered the transactions with my husband. Joint Tenancy. Husband and Wife. All that goes with that. I closed both deals as a single woman selling and buying alone. All that goes with that. My realtors were stunned. Both seasoned and knowledgeable, neither had ever had a client die during a transaction. Let alone a healthy client that was thrown off his game and trampled to death by cancer. We all walked together through two months, holding each other and our breaths. Twists and turns. Changes in speed and direction. Covid complicating the entire ride.

Patiently, they helped me with emailed documents, when my computer wouldn’t agree to e-signings. They handled things from the sidelines that I am sure I am happier not knowing about. They made things happen that seemed impossible. They helped peel me off the ceiling on many days when I was ready to forget the entire thing. They listened and advised. They gave me the right amount of space and support. They were treading scary waters, as Covid was new. Risking their own health, they showed buyers our home and me my new home. They coordinated the ride, and made sure things closed within 24 hours of the sale and purchase.

I was alone when VST died. I had just checked on him and he was still hanging on. He was comfortable and quiet, and I left the room for just 5 minutes. When I came back, he was gone. The phone rang. I answered in a babbling, choking, wailing kind of way that was incoherent. My sweet realtor was on the other end, the first voice to say, “Calm down, I am so sorry, how can I help?” There was no help. We lost our balance. The bull won.

Think about all those professionals that took time to say, “Calm down. I am so sorry. How can I help?” I made of list of the most insignificant times that there was an angel in human form that made all the difference to me. Someone at the post office. The doctor’s office. A neighbor. And even a guy making me a Subway sandwich. I took the time to write them a Thank You, for comfort they gave while just doing their jobs. Not even knowing how much it meant to me. Do the same. It is a small part of our healing. Acknowledging the fans that cheered, held their breaths, and helped us get up and start our journey through widowhood. Hold on, its okay to use both hands, this is a tough bull to ride.

Please note– A special shout out to Penny Phillips from Coldwell Banker in Fernley, Nevada, and David Shriver from Coldwell Banker in Carson City, Nevada. You were both a Godsend to VST and me during our darkest hours. You lovingly helped me say Goodbye and Hello while carrying me through a horrible time. I love you both.

Looking back on my planner for the week of April 20, I marvel at all the loose ends I had to tie up while selling/buying/packing/moving. With Covid raging in everyone’s mind, there were no casseroles and floral arrangements behind a ringing doorbell. There was me, a stunned woman in grief of the worst kind, putting on her boots every morning to get stuff done. Exactly what I did.

VST and I had a standing joke, more mine than his. I always felt I would reach for the door earlier than him and make my heavenly exit first. We shared many miles in the RV discussing this. We would argue about who would die first and why. It became competitive banter with humor, but, I did believe I would go first. I was the one that had more obvious emergency room visits due to a stupid Vaso Vagal reaction hitting me at the worst times. He had slow and quiet problems like crippling arthritis. So, in my mind, he would be the widower.

I counseled VST on this very topic. First bit of advice. Watch the arrival of the casserole dish. Some casseroles arrive in disposable containers, ripe for the tossing when the contents are gone. This type of person is really helpful, and knows that they will never see their dish again. A great friend to do this service. Practical and thoughtful. I counseled him to make a note, because washing and returning a casserole dish may be cumbersome during the first weeks as a new widower.

There are those that will deliver a casserole in their finest stoneware. Warning. Red Flag. Make note of this, too. How was the deliverer dressed? Speaking? Wiping lint off your three day old smelly tee? Cleavage exposed? Beware. This person is not expecting to ever forfeit this expensive dish. In fact, it is a place holder for a return visit. Warning. Beware. If the unexpected visit might be welcome, that’s one thing. But, the dish is a connection to the future. Just an observation from the past. If the phone number is written on the bottom with a smiley face and a heart….that should not go unnoticed.

We would laugh and one name would repeatedly come up. Don’t answer the door VST. Please. Just feign some horrible pandemic-y disease and hide under the covers. But, you open the door, it ‘s just like bed bugs. Hard to unring that bell, and you will never really get rid of the problem.

It had been twelve days since VST had died. His urn, which had to be just the right shade of blue with embellishments of pewter, sat in the bookcase. I had so many appointments that my head was swimming, and the phone rang. Friends of the best kind, soft, sweet, caring, and amazing cooks, were on the other end. What was my favorite meal? What could they bring to me? I had been running so many errands, rolling on and off the mountain, each trip to civilization costing me at least 30 minutes one way. Covid had closed all restaurants and emptied store shelves. Luckily, living in the wilderness and coming off winter, I was stocked, but the thought of a real home cooked meal brought tears to my eyes.

Spaghetti and meat balls. I guess if I was on death row, it would be a strange last meal. But, I had been craving S & MB for days, with french bread and garlic butter. Not even my favorite meal choice, but what I wanted more than anything on the morning of April 20th. In the midst of the chaos, Oliver had a vet’s appointment at noon, so off we went down the hill.

Two hours later, returning to the front door, I saw an strange and interesting item. There, sitting with a pot of pink tulips, was a brown metal, scuffed and very antique container. It was 1/2 the size of a banker’s box and 1960’s vintage. My friends had dropped off the meal! A real meal made with loving hands, that came from the dearest of angels. A care package had never been sweeter. Flowers, TOO!!!! Amazing, because with winter’s cloak still wrapped tightly around VC at 6200 ft., and my soul needed the powerful medicine of these blooms. Easter had come and gone, and these flowers stood as a reminder that I would bloom again, too, and spring was on the way.

After settling Oliver, I carefully took the ice chest to the kitchen to explore what was inside. Everything about the box was comforting. I’m pretty sure my Mom and Dad had one similar when I was growing up, taking it along on camping trips or outings to the beach. It was well used and packed with goodness only these two could have thought up. Inside was homemade sauce and meatballs with spaghetti noodles cooked just right. A small green salad with dressing on the side. Ciabatta roll, fresh and squishy. A hunk of garlic butter, wrapped in saran. Another saran of fresh Parmesan cheese. And a meal that would last a couple of settings. It was a feast that warmed me to my toes. I stood in my kitchen and cried the ugly cry thinking that this was, indeed, a meal that was made with the deepest kind of love. That from dear friends whose hearts were breaking for VST and I.

With each bite, I remembered all the times we had shared memorable Italian meals. So many different restaurants, with kids and without. At our own country kitchen at the ranch, with 5 kids running around asking for seconds. By candlelight, or off paper plates. I wished he was there to sing me “O Solo Mio” with his booming bass voice. An outside observer would see an old woman, eating Spaghetti and Meatballs through her tears. But, for me, it was a feast of memories with every bite, so comforting and warm.

Today, take inventory of those clean casserole dishes waiting to be returned. Think of the love and care that went into preparing food for you when all you could do was remember to breathe. Find the names on the bottom and call them. The best friends will come to retrieve them and sit with you for awhile. Savor the flavor of the bond you have with them and be grateful that you are loved that much. To my spaghetti toting friends, you know who you are. Your kindness that day was one that helped me stay afloat. Your friendship today is golden. I love you both.

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Hands connect us to one another in a unique and precious way. In VST’s last days, he chose to spend time on “the death couch” as he referred to it. He first recoiled at the thought of opening the hide-a-bed in the living room, but later, chose it often to rest next to me in the busy part of the house. He slept while I snapped this, or he would have protested that any part of our nightmare called cancer was documented in this way. Images have a way of returning us to captured moments. We were captured by the hell that is cancer.

My own hands are large, functional Germanic woman-hands. The kind that get things done. Size ten ring finger. Not a dainty, girly-girl digit in the bunch. They attempted to help me play piano when I was little, but constantly flew in directions not conducive to a beautiful melody. My mom was crushed. They also attempted to help me with guitar. They easily wrapped around the neck, depressing strings to make keys that hummed in a 1970’s kind of Glen Campbell way for a time.

Through the years, they held young lovers, wrote term papers, dialed phone numbers and twirled the cord late into the night. They pointed and shook at boys that needed to leave me alone, and beckoned those I wished didn’t. They raised Guide Dogs for the Blind, delivered brand new puppies into the world, trained dogs, and held their paws as they took their last breath. They irrigated grapes and helped shake them after they turned into raisins. They washed a squirmy grandson and splashed with him until we were showered with delightful fun in the bathroom. These days, they hold Oliver in the silent mornings when I wish VST was still here to share our morning coffee. They wipe my own tears and help me move on through this blog.

In the beginning of VST/Me, our hands were busy with life. Every aspect. Work, personal, spiritual, family, and educational growth. Through the years, VST used his massive mitts in the gentlest of ways. Holding a daughter’s precious hand at the country fair, leaving an imprint on her heart that warms her still today. His hands wielded wrenches, and twins, a boy and a girl, when he was 21. They held steering wheels, traveling millions of miles in his lifetime. They built houses, waterfalls, great walls, and our life together. They wrote his dissertation and earned him the loving title Doctor H. Later in life, they caused him intense and extreme pain with arthritis and paralysis.

When we were together, our hands were often intertwined. After decades of marriage, often on a trip to Lowe’s I would be in my own writer’s head. And there he would be, on a cold parking-lot morning at Lowe’s grabbing mine. People would smile at us in that way. How adorable, these two sage lovers. And that is what we were, even if we had just argued the whole way there about an insignificant topic of the day that found us at odds. I would feel his hand reach for mine, and I was home, wherever we found ourselves.

Hands held each other when he had no more strength to reach for me in the night. My hands helped him take morphine and other hideous drugs, less horrible than the cancer that robbed him from me. They wiped his brow when he was feverish. They helped him into the passenger side of the Jeep to travel to the doctor, when it was me that took the wheel while he slept. They put soft blankets around him when he suddenly found himself bone chillingly cold. And more than a few times, they shook at the heavens, questioning WHY.

Finally, in one last touch, it was my hand stroking his cheek that said Goodbye to him as he was making his final exit on that beautiful Virginia City morning. My hands cradled his urn and wondered how this all transpired in nine weeks.

Hands need to find each other and hold on. Touch is a precious sense that can speak louder than words at times. Caresses feed starved skin and comfort a bruised soul. Use your hands to produce acts of kindness. Wave. Open a door. Greet someone you haven’t seen for awhile in spite of Covid, or because of it. Clap for others. Journal your life. Connect with each other. Hold hands as you cross the street, and be so grateful that you have another’s hand, if only for a time.

Letting You Go

You saved me when I needed saving so badly.

You have been the one to hold me, to cheer me, to love me, to teach me.

You.

It was you from the first look.

It was you from the YES to your proposal.

And, it is you now.

I need to let you fly with the wind, with the angels, to the arms of God and our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

Please wait for me. Please be my guardian angel and help me across when my day comes.

Thank you, My Golden Friend, My Bold Lover.

My heart will beat to remind me I need to stay here a little while longer.

I will remember our sweet story, smile, and share it often.

Because you and I are, and always will be pure love. Period.

I say these things not knowing HOW I can let you go.

But

Knowing I must.

Take my love with you, and find me when I finish my time on earth.

I love you most…

Even though I know you love me more.

Your Darlin Forever, Mrs. H

JH April 6, 2020