January

The Christmas tree stands in the corner of our sitting room. Like a close friend that was here for an all too brief visit. The Tree is a gentle reminder of years past—children who were once small, a family that was once complete and is now without a father, a husband--memories of vacations, a honeymoon, first Christmases, new babies. I look at the tree and see children who sleepily tumbled out of bed on Christmas mornings to see all the gift-wrapped glory that lay beneath its twinkling branches. I see my husband as he patiently assembled bikes and doll beds and tried to find the hundreds of game pieces that spilled out of packages ripped open in an excited frenzy. I see his smile as he basked in the happiness of his babies.

This year—our first year without his warm presence—is bittersweet. How time continues. Holidays come and go without regard to the absence of one so dear. How can it all keep revolving when my world stopped that heartbreaking day in March? “He is gone—he died—can’t you get that through your head?” This seems to be what the world is yelling at me, but it hits my ears in some foreign tongue, because I just stare and try to understand the words. But it does not make sense. He was just here—I think—I am sure he will be back in a few moments. He is just at the office or has been delayed by a late client or he has stopped to pick up some little treasure for our girls. But the time passes and the door does not open to his gentle smile. The dogs wait for their master who never comes—the children grow and change and they do not get to look over and see their Daddy as he cheers them on in soccer or basketball, nor does he get to hear their sweet voices as they sing a Christmas carol. Where did he go? I cannot understand why he is not here—he would never miss these things—these life events—the things that we dreamed and hoped for from the moment we first said “I love you.”

Come back to us—come home—the tree is beautiful this year. It is waiting for you—if I just leave it up long enough—like a beacon in the night, then I know you’ll find us and come back. We are not done yet—it is all just beginning—we were just really starting to love. We are a family and that will not change—even our littlest child understands that Daddy is still with us.

My arms ache to hold you, my fingers long to trace around the form of your face—trying to memorize every part of you—your voice, your laugh, your smile, how it feels to be in your embrace—how it feels just to know you are in the house—even if it is in another room where you are reading or napping. Just to know you are with us—we feel safe, we feel complete, we feel warm. My biggest worry is what to make for dinner and how to get our youngest to eat vegetables... I took it all for granted.


I never thought we would have a last kiss, that I would close my eyes and wake to find you gone. I never thought I would be so alone so soon. I never thought the light would go out in your eyes.

You are gone—somewhere I cannot go. Sometimes I feel you near—perhaps you are there and just within my reach, but untouchable. I talk to you and ask you how to keep going—how to know all I need to know to get through each day. I beg God to keep what is left of our family together—I beg him not to take any more from us. I pray for Him to forgive me for all my wrongs. I want to be with our children until they are grown. I want to be able to keep them safe and to catch them when they fall. That is all you ever wanted. I remember you told me you would miss being there to catch them if they fell. I promised you that I would take care of them forever. I would have taken care of you forever. You had to go—and I understand. It was not okay to go—I know that is what they told me to tell you, but it was not. It will never be okay for you to go. I have to move on—I know that—but move on to what. Who am I if I am not your wife, your friend, your business partner—the one you fought with—the one who cried with you—the one who bought you Christmas gifts—the one who needed you. Who am I now? What do I do with my days while the children are at school? I am not a wife anymore—my life is not the same—my dreams have to change, but what do I dream of now?

I have to start with the Christmas tree. It has to be put away—like a cherished friend who has come to visit and now must leave. I worry and ask “where will we all be in a year?” Will we be together next Christmas—can I count on that? What can I hold on to in order to get through the next year, the next week, the next hour?

If you can see me—if you can whisper words of comfort to wipe away my tears and ease my worry—please make it better. Help me to go on without you—to find some way to see a new life and to be okay again. I don’t need to be happy—just okay. I don’t want to be afraid anymore.

I need to start by putting away the Christmas tree. It is January.