This is the first of what could be thousands and thousands of writings about Brian. I have thought about starting a new blog, but how does one separate life from yoga, yoga from life? The answer is simple: one doesn’t. If you are reading this post from a feed or email, please click on the actual blog – Sarahsana.wordpress.com – to find more information and a way you can help. ~SK
It’s Wednesday morning. The coffee is still brewing and the world is still somewhat quiet. My husband would normally still be cocooned in a tangle of blankets, snoring softly (or not so softly,) and reaching out with his left hand to find the small of my back to pull me in for one more snuggle, but not this morning. Brian has been up all night and he still hasn’t gone to bed. He’s been up all night every night since November 24. I am sure you have seen him.
Brian is now running with the moon.
As our children were in their favorite now too-small pajamas and brushing their teeth for bed on Sunday, November 25, two police officers arrived at my doorstep to tell me that my best friend, my soul mate, my other half, the other half of my own jaggedly cut puzzle piece, had died in a tragic, freak accident while camping alone, under the moon. In that instant, part of me died right with him. I became both formless plasm and a frozen statue of shock at the exact same moment.
Shock is a very strange thing. My senses processed things, my brain processed things, I could move (sort of,) I could talk (although I really have no idea or memory of what I said for the most part,) I had a fairly clear sense of who needed to be called and told, although I had absolutely no idea what words to use – I’m still not sure what I said. I had to tell my mother that I needed her help because my husband was dead. I had to tell my children that their father was dead. I had to tell my mother- and father-in-law that their son was dead. I had to tell my brother-in-law that his only sibling was dead. I had to tell my boss that I wouldn’t be at work the next day because my husband was dead. I had to tell my husband’s boss that someone else would have to open up the next day – and every day after that – because my husband was dead.
I had to say “Brian died” a thousand times. I died a little more each time.
The night wore on, people came and went, and still I was in shock. My beautiful children put themselves to bed because it was too much, my in-laws slowly left to process on their own, my mother stayed with me, and I stayed there, dry and wide-eyed, waiting for my husband to walk in the door.
I’m still waiting.
In the more than a week – wow, how is it more than a week? – since that horrible night, I have gotten a few answers and even more questions that will probably remained open-ended until the day I shed my human body and can ask Brian directly. That’s not to say that I have to wait that long to be with him. I feel him. I literally feel him wrap his arm around me. I feel his hand on the small of my back. I feel his large, clunky knuckles interlace with my small fingers in times of deep grief. I just have to remember to keep my hands open.
I have to remember to keep everything open.
I have my husband’s ashes. I have his children. I have his love. And, early each morning, I pour myself a cup of coffee, bundle up against the cold, and head out to have a cup of coffee with my beloved Brian. He’s the one running with the moon.