Sunday

loss

When someone dies, the people who love them worry that some day, the memory of that person will fade. That they won't remember them clearly. And the eventual loss of those clear memories is painful in its own quiet way, following the acute pain of losing the actual person.

I find that this is happening to me with memories of my marriage, which lasted more than a decade. It's not that I can't remember the person I was married to; I communicate with him almost daily because we are parents, but as time passes, I find it hard to remember the "us" part - what it was like when we were together. Our shared interests, our inside jokes, the way each of us positioned ourselves in our bed each night... These memories are curling up at the edges now.

And despite the fact that I believe ending the marriage was the right thing to do, I find myself clinging to what I can remember and sometimes, trying really hard to conjure up a clear memory of that now-dead relationship.

2 comments:

Anonymous said...

A high school friend's mother once told me about her first marriage to a man who was killed in World War II. She said that, looking back on it...the pain of the loss, her husband, and the marriage itself...was like watching a train go down a track, retreating into the distance. As time went by, the train was further from sight, and so was the pain and the memories. You can still see the train, but just barely in the distance. She described it, too, as being like the fragments of a dream that you can still remember years later. I've found both of her analogies to be true concerning losses in my life.

Anonymous said...

Another way to look at those experiences is like a mountain.

When you are right there at the mountain it is HUGE, then as you get down the road it seems small enough to hold in your hand and can even disappear if you go far enough away. The trick is to remember this effect of time and distance -when you are facing a tough situation.