So, apparently, from what I read, I am at the stage where it finally sinks in that the deceased loved one is not coming back. There is no nightmare to wake up from. The dream is real. Georg is gone.
Saving every little scrap of paper that he ever wrote on, or scribbled on, or cut a collage piece from, is not going to bring him back. Saving the mountains of thank you cards that his friends sent him for magical meals he prepared or wonderful hospitality he showed is not going to bring him back. Saving photographs of people and places I do not know? Ridiculous. What on earth will I do with these things? Where will I store them? Why am I saving them?
It is especially hard to throw away the get well cards that people were sending in the last nine months of his life. People sent lovely images of the wild California coast line, or birds flying over the Gulf of Mexico at sunset. There was so much hope in these images and the words of his friends. People were certain that his vitality would return soon and he would be back in the studio. People were pleased that he was safely in proximity to family, to me.
Ha. A lot of good that did. Being near me did not save him. Yes, sure, he had some extra care from someone who loved him with all her heart for a while there, but there was nothing she could do to keep him alive. Nothing. Nada. Zippo. Zilch.
He died. Georg died. He is dead. His ashes are in a box under a table behind a chair in my living room. I try not to think about them, but every once in a while, these bone scraps that once held him up start rattling in my thoughts and their sound is deafening.
In two days, it will be 2014, a year in which Georg never lived, a year his consciousness never knew. How can that be? He and I used to say we were going to live to be at least 140. We kind of believed that. I always would have been 23 years younger than him, but that was not how our math worked. We were going to be together for a long, long time.
Ha. I am still here. Trying—as idiotic as it may be—as useless, as futile, as impossible, to save him still.