Eleven Months Later.
It’s been almost a year since Bev. Actually 11 months yesterday. A lot has happened since then, and not much at all. It’s been, it still is, the intersection of grief and life. In this time, these 11 months, I’ve driven 22,000 miles around the country releasing Bev’s ashes in all those places we lived or laughed, or were meaningful to us or we really enjoyed, and I spent time with all those important people in our family and our family of friends. Bev’s gone, I tearfully accept, but, of course, Bev was with me for every mile and at every step of that journey of almost four months. Bev was with me among the beauty of the red canyons and boulders, and the crashing of the coastline oceans, and the magnificence of the tall and never ending deep forests of the north. Bev was with me on high and winding mountain roads that overlooked deep forested canyons and sometimes endless plateaus. In the wilderness and desolation of the badlands and the deep serenity and beauty of Zion and Bryce. Atop mountaintops overlooking vast beauty below, so high that birds were sailing below. In funky and hip towns we would have enjoyed living, and in incredible sky views and sunsets in every part of the country, watching the sun sink into the land or into the ocean. I can’t think of a greater tribute than taking this pilgrimage to Bev, a tribute also to the life we lived for a mighty long time. That journey hasn’t really ended, how can it? But even so, despite all that’s happened in these 11 months, nothing much has happened, nothing much has changed. It’s a point frozen in time. Bev is still gone. The second hand stopped.
Bev slipped away on February 29, ensuring I can’t mourn on that day for another four years. Was that the last light of Bev’s incredible sense of humor, her last funny act and word? I don’t think so, but I’d like to think so.
