Jodine

Where to now? I don’t know. I go about my day, act as if I’m fine and once in awhile I am. I have loving and compassionate partner, who’s been through his own losses, but I don’t want to talk about how I feel to him. I’m not angry over what I can’t change. I have been well schooled in acceptance over the last few years, and understand its harsh ways, but who ever said acceptance was comforting?

Even so, I can’t contemplate letting go of my grief. I want to feel that clenched fist around my heart and the pain that slices against the back of my knees, threatening to knock me down. I want to keep my grief and pain close, as if somehow that will keep Jodine near me. Of course I know it won’t, but it doesn’t stop me trying.

It might help if I had friends in San Francisco who knew her well, who could laugh with me about her high heel obsession, spendy ways, and the naughty chuckle, but most of her other friends are on the East Coast. Long distance calls with both people sobbing into cell phones just doesn’t work, and we can’t seem to span the distance and make a new connection, separate from Jodine.

Elizabeth II of England famously said that “grief is the price we pay for love.”  Strangely, I find that enormously comforting. So, I grieve and go forward. I cherish my old friendships and take heart from the possibility of unexpected new ones. And every once in while I look at that picture on my desk and say: “I get it. Those second calls meant the world to me, and so did you.”