illuminations

Last night was the annual "Illuminations" evening at Hospicare, the residence where Rich died. Where, almost a year ago, he made his final home.  Where his soul -- I need to believe -- took its leave.


As always, loveliness prevails.  The gardens are in greater green and purple and yellow than ever, the wine selection is local white and red, the setting sun softens the edges of the day.  


Rich's social worker hugs me.  How are you doing, he asks.  Doesn't he know that this is unanswerable?


"As expected," I say.


This says nothing, but usually satisfies the questioner.


I am given a slip. 


"Richard Galik."


I hold this tightly, even though it's just a piece of paper.


This I will affix to a lumineria, my choice of the couple of hundred or so outlining the pond.  For this task, a volunteer accompanies me, electric lighter in hand.


"I was so shocked to hear Rich died," she says, as we pass the koi pond where Rich sat so many hours and the labyrinth garden where he sat so many hours..."he was so young."


I say nothing.


"And you're his wife?" 


I don't know how to answer this, either.  Thirty-one years and six months, yes.  Seven months, no.  Years ago, I was in Norway for two weeks.  This doesn't make me a Norwegian, despite the memories and the photographs and occasional craving for fresh salmon.


Music follows, but I don't.  I stare at his room, his room, his room.


Afterward, Connie and Meghan and Tina come to greet me, they heard I was outside.  I can't go inside, not tonight.  Connie and Meghan are nurses who cared for Rich, and Tina a saint disguised as an aide.


As she hugs me, I cry.  I can't hold it in anymore.


"He will always be in my heart," she says.  "I was so lucky to know him, what a man...you were such a couple...it must be so hard..."


Grief, damn it to hell, is a chronic disease, cycling round and round.


I cancel another hike with a man who is not Rich.


No matter who I'm with, I'm alone.


Candace