It was like I had been absorbed by a comet hurtling toward the sun. To escape destruction, I bailed, and it was already too late to save most of me. My heart seems like a remnant, a memory of itself.
The fact that I could not be tolerated in the world as I went about my business, that my mere existing deserved punishment is an experience I share with a number of dehumanized victims of state genocide. This cruel targeting of the innocent happens in all levels of society. It happened to me in my own family. I was equally invested in my home and children, but I lost my home, and for a time, I lost my children. I lost my husband forever.
He hadn’t made me love him. I showed up when he needed someone to love him. He was fortunate. As for me, I was the luckiest woman alive. I could still say that, and mean it.
Today as I was commemorating our 20th wedding anniversary I realized all energy manifesting as matter is of divine origin. The ocean is undeniably beautiful, but matter is fundamentally miraculous, possible only by pure and honest love, joy, celebratory cosmic dance of ecstatic union with the Beloved. This is the birthright of everyone and everything. No invention or propaganda can change that, yet this common wisdom is rarely valued.
When you love someone you want them to be happy, so when Dave died, and as much as I hated that he was dead, I encouraged his spirit to not look back, to rely on me to be his friend in the afterlife, to be comfortable knowing I would always channel him, would always welcome his protection and intervention, would want him to rule the Underworld in his stylish fashion, and to know my heart was eternally blossoming with love for him. That even if his death was a mistake, he was not dead to me and never would be.
My feelings for my husband were so much a part of me that I grieve to not be able to hug him or send him a warm text and get one back. Even at court we sometimes got along. We were magnetized by each other, first one way and then the other. Knowing I repelled him was an open wound, so was knowing my love couldn’t help him, that it had a value of absolute zero to him.
There were some hints that things would change for the better. Dave dying did not signify change for the better. He was the kind of person you wanted to keep alive. He was really beautiful, intelligent, and funny. When he sang he ripped your feelings out clear down to your soles. How did he put so much feeling into his vocals? How could that much love live in such great measure in any one person, and how could that person yet be so obviously cracked?
That paradox troubles me more now than it did then. Holding Dave together was an honor because I was supporting a valuable artist. Losing that valuable artist, my children’s father, the love of my life — I guess these things happen. Did my kids deserve to lose their dad? Why wasn’t there a more unified response to his decline? Why the secrecy?
I still can’t listen to his voice very much. It’s too familiar. Not having that voice in my life — and having had it become for a time an instrument of terror — caused me to suffer PTSD, the chronic nature of it anyway. His voice was my sustenance. It was the fine structure constant of my universe, my family, my home.
I picked up this book the other day written by a woman who has relationships with dead people. It’s not a stretch for me, and it’s something I can do for Dave. He deserves me to be faithful to him, his nobility, his majesty. I can truly say that and mean it, and still wish he was here and giving me hell if it meant the kids still had a dad.
Dave, I’m betting you can read this. I am proud of you, and I stand by your ditzy incarnations, and grand iterations, and glorious recapitulations. You are so Boss, you are so YOU. I never met anybody like you, who thought you up, brought you into my life so I could so completely try and fail? I will always be solid for you. For thou art. Thou art. Thou art.