Three Months

January 08, 2006

Dear Sweetheart,

Today is the 90th day since you died. Three months. I can still see the final moments we shared together as clearly as I can see my hand today. I still relive the last weekend we spent here in this apartment. I think often of the good times we had; traveling to New York, seeing Eddie Izzard, swimming in our own pool. The days seem to be passing at a more normal pace now, but the nights are still long.

The last month has been rough. Learning that my contract was in jeopardy really put me into a tailspin. I didn't want to look for a new job, I didn't want to interview, I didn't want anything to change. I did manage to sneak up on myself and send out a few resumes resulting in two or three potential positions. I even had one face-to-face meeting with a recruiter. The whole time he was talking I kept thinking to myself, "I really don't care... just hire me or don't, but please shut the hell up." Not the best attitude for a job search.

In the end I think one tenant of our shared philosophy about life played out again. What was meant to happen, happened, because I was open to its possibility. And because I waited for it. Rushing into a new job would have been a huge mistake; one I would have regretted for a long time to come. Being able to continue on with my current employment situation is, for now, the best thing for me.

I know that I am a creature of habit, and so many of my habits have been disrupted or permanently destroyed by your death, that I can really bear to lose another major one (like work) and expect to function normally afterwards. With time I will build new habits in my personal life to account for your being gone and then I'll be able to shoulder changes in other parts of my life.

The apartment manager shared with me that because of my situation I could end the lease just by giving 30-days notice. While that is good to know, I can't imagine not being in the last place we shared. I do not particularly care for this apartment, but together we made it a home. Without you here it isn't really a home any more, but the echos of you linger in this space so here I'll stay - for now.

The hardest part recently has been losing more of my immediate memories of you. I've learned a couple of memory context tricks that allow me to hear your voice, and sometimes see your face. But I cannot replace the feel of your touch. I was so unaccustomed to touch of any sort when we met, and by the time of our parting I had grown to crave it and relish it. The loss of your fingers in my hair, your hands rubbing my feet or back, the tickle of your hair on my nose, the warmth of your body next to me on a cold winter night is almost unbearable.

I miss you so very much Tinkerbell. When I cook or bake, watching our favorite television shows (I still can't watch "I Love Lucy"), or just having dinner out. I know that you will always be a part of me, which makes me glad. But I know that every day is carrying me farther and farther away from you, which makes me sad.

Chili for dinner tonight, Sweetie, with corn bread. Later in the week I'm going to make corned beef stew. I recently made a chocolate cake to take to a friends house for dinner - it was a huge hit. I think I need to make our spaghetti sauce again soon too.

I lov eyou Tinkerbell I miss eyou I ador eyou I am still in lov with eyou Pooh

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Mark H. Nichols

I am a husband, cellist, code prole, nerd, technologist, and all around good guy living and working in fly-over country. You should follow me on Twitter.