Wednesday, April 16, 2014
Possibly R-rated. But Definitely Real~
I remind myself, when I remember, to s...l...o...w down. Not in regards to daily life stuff. But when I apply lotion. When I shampoo my hair. When I shave my legs. When I apply makeup. When I take care of myself in the ways that a woman does when she has a lover in her life.
I don't remember often to remind myself but its more often than it was.
My years with my husband were filled with texture and depth and romance and, yes, ordinary days, but ordinary days that were sensually flavored with anticipation. We flirted on the phone, from across a room, and in darkened hallways. In the middle of, well, anything, be it serious or not, our eyes would make contact and electricity would burn between us. I used to read books and magazines and articles about love and passion and second marriages and relationships and our conversations swirled around those topics.
And now. Now. Where does that passion and sensuality go, now that he is gone?
Some part of me still cares and doesn't want to age before my time so I still apply lotion but there is no sensuousness in the application now. I kind of slap it on to get it done. Its a necessity, not an experience. My lips are chapped mostly and I never seem to remember to apply chap stick. Always, in my previous life, I kept my lips kissably soft. For him, because I loved his kisses. We touched often. Locked lips. Linked hands. We created atmospheres of intimacy. My hands would slide over the muscles of his back, slowly anointing him with essential oils, memorizing the feel of him. When he hugged me, I would breathe in his scent.
The touch and the scents and the textures.
Mostly I hear widows/ers speak of the financial distress, the practical lists of what has changed and how we must cope after our loved one dies. Seldom do I hear lips speak of the yearning for those moments of teasing and laughing and flirting and mutual knowing-ness and heart-pounding, sweat-inducing, rip-roaring passion that can make life so very sweet. That did make life so very sweet.
It is an uncomfortable subject for some, I get that. But in this new I refuse to be quiet about what this being alone is really like me that is forever me, I'm defiantly singing it out into the light. Because I know I'm not the only one thinking it and feeling it. Anybody can figure out the finances, the car, the place to live, the taxes, the daily living everything. Technical stuff.
What I struggle with is the loss of his body close to mine for 24 years, touching head to toe. His hand cupping my head as he lowers his mouth to mine, his arm around me, pulling me closer. His green eyes catching mine across a room and speaking promises for when we're alone. His hand against my lower back as we stand together. His arms locking me against a wall. His hand in mine, strong and sure, as we walk and walk and walk.
Well-meaning people talk about moving on, and how he'd want me to be happy, and I hear the concern in their voices that maybe I'm still just a bit too sad for, my goodness, almost a year. And I want to say to them, (and I'm starting to, in a very nice, diplomatic way), tell me then, HOW DO I NOT MISS EVERYTHING ABOUT HIM? What do you suggest? Give me a concrete, here it is, plan to make that happen. Seriously. You tell me how I go from being touched to not being touched, from being kissed and loved to nothing, zilch, nada, done, and how I can be okay with that, in the space of oneshortfrickin'year? In the space of two years? Tell me, I beg of you. Because I'll give it a shot. Give me a recipe so that I can not miss him with every breath and, ultimately, make you feel better.
You tell me.
How do I go from this?
and not feel it to my bones? Every minute of every day and every night?