My wife, Lauren, died on the 31st of July. I’m going through our house, rearranging things, throwing things out and putting things away, partly because whenever I see something of hers it brings up a host of memories that are overwealmingly painful . Of course I want to save many of her things. I’m putting many of them away in boxes, for a time I’ll be strong enough to endure seeing them again, and maybe even enjoy those memories.
As I look at each thing it takes me on a journey back down the years. And now, it makes me more than want to cry. It makes me want to crawl into a hole and die. I feel myself falling into a hole that goes down forever into darkness, and I’m too weary to even feel.
I don’t know why I feel the need to say these things. Everyone knows, everyone can imagine death and what it means. Why this need to unburden myself, by laying some part of this burden on someone else. It seems another cruel thing about death, this way that misery has of wanting company.
I have no answers for any of this, but only look forward to a time when every nuance of the past doesn’t bring with it some subtly different shade of pain.
Yet I also feel her spirit here, in this room, and I feel her benevolence, her kind energy, and that she doesn’t want me to grieve. Goodbye my Lauren, my wife, my life.
Brent Hightower
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