Letter to my dead lover, best friend, beautiful woman, delightful "bebe" (grandmother), mother, and child.

Debra, would that I could raise you from the dark ether of nothingness into the light of being, of living.
No matter what it would take, if I had the power to resurrect you, my love, I would do it!
I am here, reaching out with my heart and soul to find any part of you.
You died in that spot, right next to our bed, and yet I cannot sense a scintilla of your presence there. No aroma, not a whisper, not a hint of a ghostly touch.
I love you, Debra, with all my heart and soul, and I invite you to come to me and embrace any light or warmth my love can offer you.
I picture your silky, golden-reddish hair, babe. I remember touching ever-so-gently your forehead and stroking your temples with my fingertips.
You loved having your forearms stroked, slowly gliding up and down the length of your arms with fingers barely touching your skin.
You were my light in the dark, Debra. You were my peaceful haven, my heaven, my lady of bright spirit.
In my grief, I have tried to bargain for your return, but I know that you will not come back to me.
You are gone, baby. And I am surrounded and haunted by these ghosts - these sweet, quiet ghosts.
l saw you going down the escalator at the mall this afternoon; I saw you climb the tree in the back yard, though I had never seen you do that before.
More than 16 years, Debbi. We were companions for nearly 6,000 days, my golden lioness, and I cherish those moments, even to the last, though I wish I could banish the memory of your face's appearance as you took your last conscious breath. The sting and horror overwhelm me at times.
Debra, ILY4ever! I pray that your journey onward is filled with joy, and free of pain and sorrow.
Yours, always.                

april 24, 2016 - memories

Why am I psyched about this date?
Because "Game of Thrones" returns - and it was Debra and my favorite series on HBO!
John Snow lies dead - in the snow - having been stabbed repeatedly by "brothers" of the Night's Watch. Ghost, John's faithful dire wolf, howls in grief, locked behind a thick wooden door.
So why should a work of fiction weigh so much on the scales of my life? Why does a story anchored in treachery and warfare strongly hold my emotional attention?
I feel Debra beside me right now, smiling at me and mourning the death of Snow - knowing, of course, that the character is just an actor portraying a role - but the fantasy and whimsy thrills the heart and lightens the darkness of my soul.
That is why.
Too deranged? Too gloomy? Perhaps too desperate.
Life is a wondrous gift that has no basis in reality other than the fact of it.
God - who's that?
God - what's that?
Hope is the burning ember that pushes the human race forward into the next sunrise. And hope is the hat rack upon which God is suspended in the minds of all human beings.
Dogs, cats, eagles, giraffes, lions, rhinos, and every other living thing that breathes, feeds, uses senses to navigate through the world, none has a God to pray to or fear.
The emptiness tries to swallow me, the grief tries to strangle my beating heart, but Debra's love still holds me above the waterline, allowing me enough air to survive.
Someone (perhaps Stephen Hawking) once said, "With hope there's life."
Who would argue with that?
Not I.
And now, on with the show.