The return of memories

The last few weeks have been really hard. It seems that the closer I get to the anniversary of Paul’s death, the more memories I have. I remember vividly the things we did the week before he died; our last full weekend before he died. I remember conversations we had and I can almost feel the joy of our laughter as we worked in the garden together one week before I lost him.

Note: This post was originally shared on my “widowhood” blog, “Frances 3.0: Still in Beta”.

I enjoy remembering all of the good things, but sadly I’m also remembering the bad things. I remember with extreme detail being woken up in the middle of the night and trying desperately to save Paul. I remember the terror and the horror of those early-morning hours – and I remember them with more detail than I’d like. I remember the days leading up to his funeral; I remember seeing him there in that coffin – not looking like the Paul I knew but like some stranger, because my Paul would never be laying there like that.

I don’t know if these new, more vivid memories are because my mind knows I’m coming up on the one-year mark or maybe because I am finally dealing with the details of ordering his headstone. Part of me likes that I’m remembering all of the good things, and part of me is worried that remembering will just make me sad.

I’m crying more than I have in several months and I feel much more fragile right now. People have told me that it will be easier after a year, but I don’t how it will be easier when Paul still won’t be here with me. There seems to be a notion that I’ll just “snap out of it” or be able to “move on” once a full year has passed. Like there’s some expiration date on grief or something.

I’m trying to enjoy the memories as they come to my mind, in part because I’m so afraid that I’ll forget these little things one day. I just wish that we had more time to make even more memories. I wasn’t ready to stop creating a future with Paul, and at least all of these memories remind me of what an amazing past we had.

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