It’s been over three years since Adrian died, and I think I’ve adjusted well, but finding myself alone at night still slams me in the face.
I stand in the silent kitchen, observing my naked exposure.
He is not here.
I am alone.
Typically I turn on NPR while I’m making a simple dinner for myself. If I don’t like what’s on the radio during meals, I read the newspaper, a book or magazine.
For conversation, I talk to the voice in my head.
That voice doesn’t shut up. I can’t get it to shut up when I want it to.
Most of the 20 minutes I spend meditating each morning is noticing that in the room of my mind, the thoughts come and go, speaking of minutiae with a fanatic dedication.
On a walk by myself this week, I was determined to open my mind to the life in front of me—to nature—embracing it with deep breaths. I let my mind relax (as much as mine can ever do that) and mingle with the trees and sky.
It was a kind of peace—until I came upon another walker, jogger, biker—and went through the paces:
smile
make eye contact
do I know her?
say hello
no, they’re absorbed in their own conversation
just walk by
watch out, move over
how rude
cute dog
don’t jump on me
breathe
Still alone, I fill the empty space by filling my mind. Sitting here, writing this, I pause to listen.
I see Adrian in my mind’s eye. He visits me in dreams. I hear him in the voices of his sons.
I am alone. And I am still.
Adrian with my daughter Blixy in San Diego in 1987.
