One of the most difficult things I continue to experience since Kevin’s death is the sensation of near and far. We spent 33 years of our lives together and sometimes he feels so very, very near. There are times when I can hear his voice in my head, so strong and so forceful. Other times I can almost feel his presence in the room. I know, rather, I knew him, how he would respond, and on some occasions I still experience a remarkable closeness in this regard. Occasions like this weekend just passed.
I made the journey to meet my fourth grandchild. Lovely little boy; perfect in every way. As I held him I could almost feel Kevin’s touch, so gentle and so loving, there with me, embracing the sweet child I cradled in my arms. Kevin was all about the kids, all about family. How he loved the fact that he had become a grandfather. He’d plan how, after he retired, he would spirit the grandchildren away for weeks so he could teach them what life was really about. Such a sad, sad thing that he died before he had the opportunity. And it was a sad journey, making the trip to see my son and his infant son, this time, the first time, without Kevin.
Then there is the far – the times when I find a picture or a letter or hear a song and Kevin seems so very far away. Or when something goes wrong, and it’s on me to fix it, and I don’t hear Kevin’s voice in my head helping me figure things out. Times when I need him but he can’t be there. He’s far, far away. It is seven months in a couple of days, and sometimes it feels like he’s been gone forever. I can’t recall what it felt like to come home to him, to wake up with him, to just hear his voice. This is part of the far. I remember coming home to him, waking up with him, listening to him, but I don’t recall how it felt because it was comfortable and predictable and everyday. It’s the intangibles that get me, on some level, within memories; it’s the intangibles that hurt.
The near and the far, we all experience it in some way, at some point, throughout our lives.