There is nothing more idealized and romanticized than the love we express for the person who is not here.
My marriage to Adrian certainly had its dark moments—times of stress and strain that made one or both of us question the whole enterprise. But we struggled through those times and stayed together.
Yet when I think about him now, I just want him to be here. When he shows up in my dreams it doesn’t matter if he’s old or young, vigorous or frail, helpful or a burden—I’m just glad to see him.
A friend said to me recently, “It’s such a rare thing to find love like that. How lucky you are to still have it.”
Well, our love wasn’t rare. Rather, it seems rarefied now that he’s gone.
When he was in front of me, I saw all his flaws. Now, even his flaws are precious memories.
I idolized my first husband also, after he was long gone from my life. Distance and time sure made this heart grow fonder. And as long as he was alive, no matter how distant, I always thought we’d catch up with each other some day and reminisce about the good old past.
His death ended that fantasy.
When you speak at a memorial service for a friend or family member, you are expected to talk about their virtues, not their faults.
We want to remember the good in people.
We save the bad for sessions with our therapists.
If a difficult parent lives long enough, we have time to work through our hurts and disappointments. I had such an opportunity with my father, who lived to 95. Close contact at various stages of our lives gave us the chance to fight it out and to forgive, though a writer never forgets.
The precious moments we have with our loved ones are too often only realized after they are gone.
Adrian in Canada with a butterfly on his head.
