I Miss Him Like the Ocean

I read a poignant essay recently. It was written by Kelley Lynn, a remarried widow; she is some 10 years out from her first husband's death. The title of her piece is "I Miss Him Softly."

https://widowsvoice.com/post/i-miss-him-softly/

Something about it touched me. I was happy for this stranger who had struggled mightily with the loss of her partner and old life, but over a span of years forged a new life and found a second great love. In her recent piece, she describes missing her first husband "softly" as she moves through her days with her second husband.

Oh, I wish I could miss my Chris softly, but I am not there yet. No, my missing is not typically soft, not often gentle and rarely graceful. 

That is okay. I coach myself that everyone is different, my loss is more recent, it is not hers anyway nor is my life hers. It is okay.

Still, I recognize that I miss him differently than I did in earlier days. I don't remember Chris as clearly as I once did, which means the missing is not as acute, the pain is not as cutting on a daily basis. Unbelievably, I have to focus to remember how it felt to be Us; I have to quiet the noise in my brain to hear his voice, I have to actively call up the memory of his touch.

When I do... it can be overwhelming. Like a storm stirring the ocean, the waves of missing crash violently, forcefully. The diagonal, driving rain of longing makes me bone-cold. Yes, my desperate missing often emulates the endless depth and power of the angry, stormy ocean.

But life clicks along. I cannot stay in that space forever. Things change.

The storm clouds do eventually give way to all kinds of weather. Dry air moves in but it is yet windy and cool. Then, the sun peeks out and warmth takes over as the clouds slowly drift away. The ocean calms and a cerulean sky sets off the literally sparkling water for a time.

I accomplish tasks, fix things, think about the future. I make art and new friends. I apply for a new position at work and get it, my colleagues congratulate me. I watch our children grow and marvel at their progress, thankful to be here to see it. 

You know what, though? Even in calm weather there are at least ripples on the ocean, and those waves still break rhythmically on the beach. The tide still goes in and out. As the beach lengthens, the crests do meet the sand gently, retreating farther and farther away from me. On those same good days, the tide inevitably comes back in. Imperceptibly at first but relentlessly nevertheless, those same waves encroach on the smooth sand, eroding the beach bit by bit.

In the best of times, I feel like I am in Maine, standing with my feet in the sand and my face raised to the setting sun as the ocean swells to meet the land. The water rushes to my half buried bare toes, then reaches the apex and rapidly recedes. Even in its graceful calm, the cadence of the rushing water is a repeated whisper:

Toward the shore, I draw you near: I miss you.

Out to the ocean, I cannot hold onto you: Come back.

Toward the shore, you feel so close: I love you.

Out to the ocean, the details fade: Thank you.

I miss you, Come back.

I love you, Thank you.

Over and over and over and over. Sometimes serenely, sometimes brutally, often at one of a myriad of gradations in between. Regardless of tenor, the underlying rhythm has become so predictable it is comforting.

Just as the ocean will persist in its surging and ebbing, it will be this way until the end of my time, I think.

I miss you, Come back. I love you, Thank you.

Yes. I miss my husband these days like the multi-faceted ocean, the ocean I have always loved. Powerful, mysterious, scary, benevolent, beautiful; covering most of the earth where my being currently resides and his has ceased to exist.

I miss him like the ocean.