Did you know I was there?
I think you did
I think you squeezed my hand
To reassure me? 
To ask me to stay? 
To ask me to let go?  
Did you know I would dare? 
I didn't know I could

I held your hand 
And the last invisible gaze of your spirit
It stayed with me 
It came inside 
So that now I am you 
At times 
In the way I do things 
You are somewhere within 

I held your hand and you squeezed 
But it was not a squeeze 
It was that wave of energy that only you possess 

You sent it to my heart 
You gave it to my soul 
Only I did not know 
Until later 
You were saying goodbye 
You were saying please 

I wanted to end your suffering 
Because you did not belong
In this world
Because you were an angel 
Being a mere mortal was too much 
And it was not enough 
Pointless 

Did you give up or give in? 
Did I?  

I held your hand  
And the last invisible gaze of your spirit 
It is all around me still
Without and within 

Funny how this poem, written in 2015, came to mind today. I just returned home from meeting a friend for coffee and a long walk. We both lost our husbands. We both witnessed their journeys of suffering and enduring. We both have questions still, and marveled at the fact that we bounced back. Fashioning unique lifestyles that suit us. Fashioning new wisdom and strengths that surprise us. But the memory of our soulmates lingers, like a deep, inner presence that can never be shed.

My husband, Roderick, passed in January 2010. He was only 60 years old. He was a dignified man, humble, honest, caring, sensitive, spiritual, and beautiful inside out. T-cell lymphoma disintegrated his body from within, fast, devastatingly fast, until I had to choose to let him go, because holding on would have subjected him to needless, inhumane torture.

I held his hand one last time, after a two-hour conversation with doctors. It was unreal, at once peaceful and deeply traumatic. I think I was in an altered state, a bit like a child who is too young to let go of the only love it needs, yet wise enough to understand that it is time for her to give that love back in the most unselfish way.

I’ve been writing a book about him. He must be honored for the truly unique human being he was. In fact, I think he was an angel. It is taking me too long. My insecurity holds me back. Who am I to write a book? But this, too, it seems, should not be about me.

Sixteen years ago, I had to pull the plug on M’lord Roderick. Now, perhaps digging out this poem is just the right nudge to pull the plug on my fear.