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Sunday, August 2, 2015

Rain

It has been raining, here, for 20 days. This, I learn from the radio: today is the 20th day of rain. I cannot remember such a rainy season before -- it seems the whole world weeps, the sky weeps, the days are countless, changeless, dreary, matching my mood.

This house is haunted. Not by Bob. I am the ghost who wanders these dark, gloomy rooms. I am the voice heavily sighing in the corner. A long low involuntary sigh. Then there's Zenith.  I see her shadow, peaking around the door.  I see her on my bed at night, back turned to me, licking her paw. Zenith is still here, Zenith haunts the house with me, and I wonder: where is Bob? where is Boomer?

A long time ago, when Bob and I had one of those obligatory married couple talks, the what-to-do-if-I-die talks, I told Bob that if he went first, that he better come back and haunt me.  He laughed and promised he would "haunt my ass" (his words, well actually he would have said "your ass"--anyway) and then he said, if he couldn't do that, one day I would be sitting on the porch and a little red bird would land on the railing and look at me and that little red bird would be him or a message sent from him.

I think of this now, a little red bird, and I wonder why he chose red -- and if he chose red, or if I only imagined "red" and maybe he just said a "little bird". But I have seen no bird, red or not, on the porch railing. I have seen no ghost of Bob. I have gotten no messages from the beyond. Not even in my dreams.

Only Zenith is still here, peaking around the corner.  A flash of Siamese fur in the hallway, a dark tail disappearing through a doorway.

And Bob exists only in my imagination, in my mind, in his pictures and art on the walls, in the things we collected together, the stories we shared. In a box of ashes on my memorial table.

Long ago, before we were married, I told Bob (and I don't remember why, or what we were talking about) but I told Bob I had never received a dozen roses. Not once. In my entire life. No one ever sent me a dozen roses. I had received, of course, flowers, but never a whole dozen roses.

Bob was poor then, recently graduated from art school, unemployed and looking for work.  And he wanted to be the one to buy me a dozen roses, but he couldn't afford it and so, he drew me a picture of a dozen roses and matted and framed it, himself.

He gave it to me, saying, that now I "would never be without a dozen roses".


A Dozen Roses by Bob


I still have a dozen roses. I will always have a dozen roses.

Outside, it continues to rain. The sky is weeping and so am I.



5 comments:

Denise said...

Yes, the weather has been dreary in Florida, and I am missing our sunshine, but at least we aren't having hurricanes. Let's hope the sun comes back soon.

Anonymous said...

I love Bob's roses :-) They came from his heart.
After my mother died I waited for her to "come back".
It took 3 months, but finally I had the most wonderful dream about her and FELT her near me. It took my breath away, but I was so glad it happened.
Perhaps you will experience something similar from Bob.

Take care, Pat Nixon

KanDav said...

As much as everyone's life experiences are uniquely different, often they're in some ways so similar.
The looking, reaching, almost yearning to see a "sign" that a loved one who has passed still lingers. From the "was that??..." to the "Where are you?!!", are thoughts I think many of us who've experienced profound loss have.
Some of us may view what we "experience" as a confirmation of sorts. A confirmation of what? I'm not exactly sure. I'm not even sure I can put into words the feelings it brings up. I guess that's where the "uniquely different" deal comes into play.
In my case, the best way I can articulate it is it confirmed that my Dad passing wasn't the "final end all be all". The experiences I had were of great meaning, and yes, comfort to me.

I see your and Bob's song coming on in the restaurant as "an experience". Of course what I see and feel about that really matters not a whit. It's what you feel that matters. Because ultimately it's your experiences.

I thank you for sharing them with all of us. And I thank you for abiding my thoughts and feelings as well.
I see your blogging along with we, all of your readers, thoughts/replies as an "experience" as well.

I've always told David please don't send me flowers, they just die. But in your case, you have a dozen roses that never will. How beautiful...

Keeping you and your fur family in my prayers.

Regards,
Kan

Mike Furr said...

My wish for you.
That one day soon those tears turn to smiles. That when you hear someone say "oh well" you can smile and agree. That when you look at that dozen roses it brings you joy that you were given those, that someone special gave you a dozen roses when they had nothing to give but love and a drawing. That one day a red bird shows itself and it brings you joy, maybe even tears of happiness because Bob is alive in your memories and he always will be. I'm sure he'd want smiles instead of sadness. Embrace him from within, show him joy, take him with you wherever you go and have fun with him even if he isn't physically there. He'd like that...


mike

Diane said...

Mike, thank you so much, your comment/wish brought tears to my eyes. As Bob would say "Oh well!" and I am smiling through my tears.

Kan, thank you too for your always insightful comments. I do appreciate them.

Pat -- I hope you are right and Denise, yes, the weather has been awful...