The Magnitude of Losing You

The magnitude of losing you is almost too much to bear.

No, actually — it is too much to bear.

That’s why it comes in such waves,

the grief.

Because to take in the magnitude of losing you would kill me.

It would finish me off then and there.



So, that’s where the waves come in.

I let myself ride out a wave of grief,

feel it, recover, keep on going.

Semi-small doses,

but sometimes those “small doses” last for weeks on end.

Tonight, I decided to go and sit down on the pier, listen to your favorite music, and watch the sun set.

I gave myself the time to sit and connect with you.

I pictured you having walked around the pier with beers, drinking with your buddies.

Or maybe sitting down here with a girlfriend at one point or another.

I definitely remember the reception after your memorial service,

the pier absolutely crowded, filled, jam-packed with people.

A whole bunch of humans that loved and cared about you.

Humans that you had an impact on, either through direct connection or simply through them knowing of you.

There must have been hundreds of these people gathered on that pier, just for you.

We watched the sun set that evening,

just like I did tonight.

Except I was alone on the pier,

just me, your favorite music in my ears, and the sunset.

But it felt like you were there too.

I could see you in the magnetic color-play on the lake,

in the ever-growing reflection sunset on the water,

in the golden sunshine, piercing through the huge dark cloud that was hovering over the mountain.

That’s kind of like who you are, now that I think about it.

A ray of sunshine that pierces through anyones darkness, sadness, or despair.

So, I gave myself those moments to feel you there with me,

as the sun set.

Every time I looked down at the water and saw the seaweed swaying with the waves,

I kept thinking I could see the ashes we spread of yours there,

glistening at the bottom of the lake,

tucked in amongst the sand.

I remember watching them descend through the water,

catching sunlight as they fell,

sparkling, shining, brilliant with light.

Your bones and ash returning to the Earth,

I miss you so fucking much.

Posted on May 9, 2016 and filed under Lifestyle, Empowerment, Grief.