Loneliness

The weight of loneliness weighs heavily today. I don't know why it's worse some days than others. Some days, I carry the burden of widowhood, loneliness, and single parenting with grace. I try to be modest about it, but I know in my heart that the sorrow that I carry suits me sometimes. In my moments of brutal honesty, I know that really, it's better this way. Not better that Ammon had to die, but better that if it had to be one of us--it should have been him. Not me. The day-to-day workings of parenting these three souls has always been done by me. I have seen to the money management for years, only sharing with Ammon what he needed to know as head of our household. Bill dates, balancing a checkbook, remembering the children's birthday and keeping the house clean--he could manage it all. He was hopelessly capable and nothing if not determined, but I know in my heart that if the children are stuck with only one parents, the logistics of having me complete the job alone are easier than it would have been were I the one who had died and left him alone.

Some days, though, some days are like today. I miss Ammon everyday. I carry around his loss with me. Some days it's like a cloak--heavy, impenetrable, hopelessly shrouding and mournful. Some days, it's simply a badge of honor that I fix proudly to my chest, hiding the hurt and pain with a veneer of strength and capability. Today, it's somewhere between the two. I'm not trapped in the dark place of longing and regret that has troubled me in weeks past. Today, it's more complicated than that.

I took the kids to the park this afternoon to enjoy our unexpectedly warm Sunday afternoon. After several days of rain last week followed by three days of gorgeous sunshine, the park was filled to bursting with gatherings of people both large and small. Everywhere I looked, it seemed, I was assaulted with visions of fathers. Fathers playing football with their teenage sons and nephews. Fathers pushing strollers while mothers chased after older children. Fathers with their arms thrown casually around the shoulders of their wives, and wives walking alongside husbands with their fingers hooked nonchalantly in the belt loops of their companions. I try to come to a place where I no longer begrudge their happiness--but I'm not fully there yet. I don't have a big enough heart at this point in time to not resent their 'togetherness' when I'm longing for my other half.

I find it ironic that for years, Ammon has tried to describe to me an Eastern spring. As he grew up in upstate New York, he was accustomed to a level of greenery that my desert upbringing never showed me. Autumn has always been my favorite time of year, even in the desert. We moved out here in the heat of summer 2007, and as fall fell upon Southwest Ohio, I was delighted with the colors.

"If you love this," he said "wait until Spring. I can't wait to sit on the front porch with you on a spring evening and cuddle on the front porch swing while we watch the fireflies".

He never got that chance. Ammon died on April 11th, as spring began to show it's head to the Ohio valley. He never got to share the joy of fireflies with me. Last spring, I sat out on our back porch and cried as they flew around the trees in the backyard. He never shared with me the blooms of the trees, and the way the bare branches become riots of color within a matter of days. When Ammon died, the world was still grey and bleak and brown. How ironic that after years of living in the desert and thirsting to go 'back east', he never got to experience his favorite season: spring.

Now spring, to me, will always signify the time of year that I lost him. Days like today will always be another day that we didn't get to share with each other.

Today, I would give anything to have him with me. There are no words to describe the longing I feel to see his smile, to spend the day with him. What I wouldn't give to convince him to join us at the park,and listen to his good-natured complaining about whatever sporting event he was missing. For his socks to be left on my living room floor. For him to delight in his daughter, who grows more charming and mischievous every day. For him to swell with pride over his eldest, who becomes more like his Daddy every day. To see him snuggle with Kadon, and teach the boys to play football while I harass them from the sidelines.

I miss being a wife. I miss being one half of a whole. I don't understand how the math works--one day I was half of a whole, and now with the loss of Ammon, I feel as less than half. It's as though when Ammon died, he took part of me with him to make me less than a whole person. The whole that we were, he took most of it. I'm still trying to figure out how to walk without him, and even though some days carry success--some days carry sorrow. Some days carry loneliness that seems insurmountable, heavy, and burdensome.

I miss Ammon. I miss his smile, his laugh, and his quiet love. I miss his gentle hands, and watching him with our children. I miss his companionship, and the solace of his mind. The world is a scary and intimidating place without him. Many years ago, we vowed to be each other's 'soft place to fall'. No matter what else the world brought, we would always find a soft spot in each other. He was that, and so much more to me. Now we are all without our soft place.

I miss him, so much it is agonizing sometimes. Even a year later, the longing doesn't go away. The disbelief only fades, it never relinquishes it's grip on my soul. How could he be here, and then gone?