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Bill is still with us,
always
I have a wonderful acquaintance who calls me occasionally to talk. We have
both lost grown children and share each others grief. These sessions are good
for both of us, but she asked me a question Wednesday night that kind of stumped
me. The same question presented itself in November on Bill's birthday.
Were we, or are we going to decorate his grave? Sometimes I am thrown by a
question such as this because everybody handles any given situation in their own
way, right? Sometimes I feel like I'm supposed to say something I don't feel.
After our conversation, I got to thinking about everything that has happened,
and continues to go on, since Bill moved home to die. We knew he was going to,
we just didn't have an absolute how and when. He was knowledgeable about the
disease, its side effects, the avenues it could, and probably would take.
Probably much the same way anyone who is terminal learns everything they can
about their disease. We discussed all aspects of our situation in preparation
for "when the time comes." Things pretty much happened as we expected. Bill
helped us do what we were supposed to do and now, Bill's body doesn't live in
our house anymore.
I wondered if I would be one of those people who hangs around the grave. I
don't. Now I wonder if anyone notices. Are you supposed to go to the grave all
of the time to stand over it and cry? Or maybe just talk to the ground? Is it OK
(with whomever determines what the "proper actions or reactions" for the
grieving person are) if we don't go up on a regular basis? I had a friend many
years ago who grieved over her son's grave every time it rained, worrying that
Richard was cold or if water was getting in the grave, or if he was lonely, or
if ...... We all have to do what we have to do. That was her way.
We knew, when Bill's body left he house, that's all that was leaving. He is
there, in the house ... He is in our car and pickups, at the computer, with me
at work, out in Ed's shed, in the backyard where he made the flower bed outlined
with red bricks, upstairs, downstairs, in the basement ...everywhere. His
wonderful laughing face grins up at me no matter where I throw my key chain
down. Wherever we are, Bill is. I don't have the need to hang around,
his grave ... he's not there.
Are we going to decorate his grave? I don't think so. The wind and the elements
would blow whatever we put up there over to the fence line; or we could hang
whatever from the tree we planted for him and they could be tom to
shreds and look real good. No ... Bill would have fits. Flowers ... we
will plant flowers to bloom from "can to can't." That's what he would have us
do.
He was a Christmas freak, too, and left me his wonderful Christmas village. As
soon as he gives me the sign that I'm ready, I'll bring it downstairs and he and
Dad and I will put it on display and light it up. Then we will turn on
the railroad crossing light and when the whistle blows and the train slows down
at the crossing, Bill can jump on and go back to his heavenly home.
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