Years ago, I wrote a story. I wrote it in parallel – two stories side by side, about the different paths we can take in our lives. That story was about Grubby and me, and the “What-ifs” that we were facing at the time. I was living in Georgia; he was in Virginia. He had someone else who he was sort of involved with, I was single. We both had a deep love for each other, but he had a lot of fear. After three failed marriages, to say he was a bit leery of relationships would be a gross understatement.
The story I wrote was the “What-ifs” of staying where we were, not truly becoming a couple, and going on with our lives, and the flip side of that – making our future together. I remember sending him the story, and after reading it, he got mad at me.
See, in both incarnations of the story of us, I wrote of my own death. He was distressed about that. He couldn’t understand why I would write about my own death and not his. Simply put, writing about his would have been too difficult for me to imagine. I could not imagine ever having to say “Goodbye” to him. That pain would have been too deep.
And yet, here I am, writing about his death. And I am surviving. Some days, I even feel like I am thriving, but that usually only lasts for a little while before reality begins to set in again. I find it interesting that we, as humans, never know what we are capable of until we have no other choice. I would not have chosen this path, but it chose me, so I walk it… every day, I walk it. Some days, a few feet feel like miles, and other days miles feel like a few feet, but I keep walking. Every day is a win, some larger than others, but who’s measuring anyway?
I guess he got his way after all. He doesn’t have to deal with life after Jeanne. He doesn’t have to sort through my clothes or decide what to do with my car. He doesn’t have to learn a new normal.
Unfortunately, he doesn’t get to see me writing, following a dream I’ve had for years. He doesn’t get to celebrate Abby playing clarinet and growing into a strong, independent young lady. He never gets to watch her eat a salad (I did that!) or order Lobster Benedict for breakfast (I did that too!). He will not get to kiss her forehead at her wedding or dance the father-daughter dance with her. And, he will never have to say “Goodbye” to me…
I remember that story. I remember you reading me that story and knowing that you were the one for him.