Sunday, November 19, 2006

Mourning Joy







Good Mourning Widows!


Joy to you and me.






If you take Route 100 from White Plains to Valhalla, you'll come to a cemetery.

It's a winding road that curves to the left. Hang a right and follow the road to the top of the hill.


It's the one on the left, is the color of coal and it's covered in lipstick kisses.


It's marked with a Star of David to the left, a cross to the right.


This is where I come to honor my beloved husband, Edward Louis Sclier, the man I was lucky enough to be married to and proud to be called His "Mrs."


Come close. Don't be shy. Read the quote under His name:


"Sir Galahad."


It is two years, six months, 19 days since Ed's death. That's a long time without hugging and holding the man I love. A lot has happened. I like the line Frank Sinatra croons, "...Mistakes, I've made a few. But then again, too few to mention."


I've often wondered about Ed -- where did He go, what is He doing, does He remember me, and if He does, does He think about me, the way I think about Him?


The answer is always the same: It doesn't matter.


Because I have memory.


Pocketsful!


A walk along Orient Beach in St. Martin -- He wore a towel, I wore a sarong;

we cuddled in Victoria Harbor in Hong Kong -- He smelled of Caress soap, mint mouthwash, and rum aftershave; my head rested in the crook of his neck as we watched the sun set;


sand in our toes at Rye Beach -- The place we met, the place we fell in love.

Since Ed's death, I'm same, but different.


Without Ed at my side I've learned a lot.


I've learned to be my best friend.


I forgive myself when I make a mistake.


And if I do, I pick myself up, brush myself off, and start all over again.

I'm not as trusting as I used to be. Trust is earned.


A cold wind blows twenty miles north of where the World Trade Center used to be. I've learned to remind myself to wear my yellow jacket, a present from Ed, and sweater Izzy, the one Ed picked out with me, before we head out the door and aim the Corolla to Valhalla.


Outside my window autumn leaves skitter while memories from another time flood my brain -- He raked and I watched.


This is my Mourning Joy!


Ahhhhh, the memory of all that...No, no, they can't take that away from me.


Thank you Edward Louis Sclier wherever you are!

Have a joyful day Widows! And remember, we're never alone!

1 comment:

  1. I suppose memories are the stories that hold us together, keep us moving, teach us how to cope with old things and new. Thank you for sharing a few of yours. I'm sure your words bring comfort and open doors for many widows around the world

    TrishA
    http://beginningsmiddlesends.blogspot.com/

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