67%

I am never 100% anywhere.
Not possible.
Not ever.

Pieces of me are out with my friends.
Having fun.
After 2 years and 3 months, I can now have fun.
I am now out of the fog that prevented me from fun.
Mostly.

But this fun differs from that fun.
It is different.
Just like everything is different.
Changed.
Forever.
In this “after” life.

That fun was just fun.
Simple.
This fun strips my heart into fragments.
Tears it open.
So that some of it is there, in the room, with my friends.
My friends, or my family, or whoever Im with, gets a fraction.
of my Heart.
A percentage.
of my Heart.

67%.
of my Heart.
Approximately.
Sometimes exactly.
67%.
The rest is divided into several different areas.
Like a pie.
Portions.

Some of my heart goes to missing him.
Just missing him.
Thinking about it. Feeling it. Knowing it.
Sitting inside that hole,
that crater,
that is reserved for missing him.

Some more of my heart goes to triggers.
Triggers are everywhere.
Triggers of sudden death.
Triggers that poke you in the eyeball,
like a needle,
rapidly,
and in slow motion,
to keep you aware,
always,
of Who is Boss.

Forcing you to re-live a moment,
or a feeling,
or a life,
or death.

Triggers are everywhere.
In the air.
An ambulance going by.
A man that looks like him.
Vaguely.
Or exactly.

Something that somebody says.
A laugh.
The scent that smells like his laundry.
Or walking by the row of busses,
in the city,
that you used to take,
together,
to get back home to New Jersey.

The food.
The drink my friend ordered, that he ordered once.
The live Jazz music we listened to and watched,
in the same club where he and I watched.
Long ago.
In our life.
Was it yesterday?
Or 5 years ago.
In the corner of my heart,
It is now.

Triggers are inside of a touch.
Like when my friend taps the rhythms of the drumbeat or piano,
onto his wife’s shoulder,
using his fingertips,
as Instruments.
Just like Don used to do.
With me.
Playing his guitar.
In our apartment.
On the couch.
On the bed.
Or hanging out with friends,
or just us,
In a Jazz club.
Tapping the rhythms to the music,
that sat inside of his soul.

Some of my heart goes to Pain.
Just pain.
That deep, aching, gut-wrenching pain.
It steps on my feet and punches my face,
from the inside.
It rotates between fighting and napping.
from the inside.
But it’s there.
Always.

The rest of my heart,
what is left,
maybe 14% or 8%,
depending on the day,
the hour,
the second.
The rest of my heart goes
straight to my husband.
To his soul.
His being.

While I talk to you, my friend
Im also talking to him.
While I hug you, my dad,
Im also hugging him.
While I walk with you, my mom,
Im also walking with him.
At home.
At work.
Out with friends.
Everywhere.
Everyday.
Every. Single. Moment.
I am with him.

All of this happens while Im laughing,
Living,
Being.

It happens inside me.
Nobody notices.
Nobody says his name, or mentions him.
Now and then,
Sure.
Somebody might mention him.
And I love that.
But usually,
Generally,
Nobody mentions him.
But he stays inside me,
where he lives now.
And I keep him alive.
Alone.
With you.
But alone.

I keep him with me,
and I make him relevant,
and I give him breath.
Because I want to.
I need to.
I give him breath,
so that I can breathe.

It’s like I’m walking around with him,
physically.
Sometimes I can see him.
Feel him.
Next to me.
Beside me.
In the moon.
In a song.
In a star,
where I sit with him,
resting my head on his chest.
Painting the sky with our love.
Living together,
in endless time,
Forever.

I might feel him in the rain,
or in the silence,
or in a joke.
And I laugh with him,
even though you think I’m laughing
with you.
And I am.
Mostly.
67%.

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11 thoughts on “67%

  1. You have a remarkable gift for putting words to feelings…I read your words and say…SHE gets IT! The only time I get close to being myself is when I’m actually focused on playing my instrument, and it took awhile for me to want to do that again. But when I get done doing that I have no one to really share that with…then the pain.

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