My partner of 27 years and I seem to take turns with bad days.
Lately it’s usually me having a bad day. I cry, despair, cling, yell at God, rage at the world and collapse into a lifeless ball at the loss of our beloved Mali.
I have always thought that Men were stronger. That’s what I learned from our society and culture. They soldier (or in his case, sailor) on. Made of impervious metal and grit.
Tim and Mali were very close. She was his Gus and he was her Felicia. Pet names they gave each other when Mali started middle school.
I realize her suicide wounded him deeply. He is nowhere near as vocal as I am about her suicide. But, he is hurting.
I see it in his face. The lines are deeper, his hair and beard have gone white in the last few months. He crys alone, so I can’t see it. He spends a lot of time in her room leaving her notes on her chalkboard. He touches her things in her room. He talks to her in whispers.
He misses her so much that I can feel his pain like we are connected with a wire that passes the sting of daily living without our ducky.
I don’t even know how to begin to comfort him. 27 years together and I’m clueless. I hug him, try to kiss his wounded heart but like I said before, you can’t fill empty human spaces with anything.
We visit the niche in the mausoleum together but we are really alone in our own thoughts. He speaks quietly to her. Sometimes silently. I watch him discreetly so as not to make him more uncomfortable than he already is.
I can’t see in our future. I hope we can find a way to keep our path together. I don’t make that easy some days. I hope his resilience can weather this hell we are in and guide us.
I am a pillar today for him He deserves that. I would gladly take his pain and carry it for him if I could.