Wayne Gordon

It's the eve of my husband's birthday--he would be 73--and I commemorate it here, as I do every year. If he were alive, I would likely not be writing about him. Funny, huh.

Perhaps I have said before, maybe every year, that I would so like to write something important or good here. But nothing is good enough. I simply do not know the right words.

And nothing will bring about what I truly want. That whole thing goes without saying.

For the last few days, and not because his birthday approached, I don't think, I have wished him here to see whatever small scene or incident has passed before my eyes. I have spoken to him about it. Out loud--and sometimes very loud--saying, "Oh Wayne, I wish you were here." This several times in the day. Then, in moment or two and in a quiet voice, "But you're not."

I don't know why I feel the need to say that part. I mean, obviously he is not here, or I would not have this Widow's Chronicle blog, and I would not be alone in my house at this moment and nearly every moment of the day and night. I am not whining, just saying what is true. So why do I think I have to verbally and often orally acknowledge that he is not here?

I don't know.

It's nine years and four months. I still miss him very much, still think of him every day, a lot every day. He was the only man I ever loved. That should be clear because I said yes to his marriage proposal.
I hope he still loves me.