The weather has changed, we've lost our wonderful "summer in winter" and are now suffering a true California winter. daytime temperatures in the 50s and rain. Oh well...it is February.
I am still waiting for the rock to roll over me. It hasn't been felt for a few days but I am pretty sure it is lingering back there somewhere. During my massage last night, Ingrid used a technique involving hots stones and hot towels on my torso and back. She said it may provide the comfort to release some of the feelings. If the analogy is correct, releasing a little by little may prevent a massive downer.
Right now I am playing the music I selected for Mary's Celebration at the house on May 8. Each of those songs has a special meaning for us, and some just trigger tears.
"From the dark and lonely street, to the bright side of the road, we'll be lovers once again on the bright side of the road...
Into this life we are born, baby sometimes I don't know why, at times seems to go by so fast, in the twinkling of an eye...
Let's enjoy it while we can, help me sing my song, little darling from the bright side of the road..." From Van Morrison's Bright Side of the Road played as our wedding march in 1996.
I loved the call for "Little Darling", Mary was certainly that for me. And "share my load", she did that for me and I believe I did that for her too. We both came out of relationships that were less than bright for each of us to be lovers once again and to form our wonderful love for each other and a marriage that was beyond belief in happiness and joy.
How could we know that "Into this life we are born...at times seems to go by so fast, in the twinkling of an eye." Mary's dad, Grampa Jack, lived to his late 80's and her mom, Alberta, lived to her late 90s. Our plan was for Mary to follow them and probably break 100 pretty easily, given her genetic gift. Instead, she just turned 63 when cholangiocarcinoma took her...decades too soon.
Truly, our time together was just "a twinkling of an eye".
I took Mary's car into the dealer this week. Its on board computer was berating me for being 20 days past required maintenance. This car does not go in on a time based schedule. Instead, the dashboard lights up like a spot light on a cop car to tell you to take it in for service.
Turns out the last time the car declared it needed service was two years ago, just before Mary's symptoms presented in late March of 2009. Our service writer, Paul, is a true gentleman. As he approached the car, he was looking around as if someone was missing. Rather than let things get to far down the wrong path, I informed him right away of Mary's death. He was visibly shaken and overwhelmingly polite.
Later in that conversation, he said a wonderful thing that simply caused me to tear up.
"It was so cute that you and Mary always came in together when this car needed service. I could easily see that you clearly had a wonderful loving relationship that was very special."
We parted on his words, "If you agree, I belong to a prayer group, may we pray for you and Mary?"
I choked out a "Yes, certainly" as the tears came and I turned away.
p
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