In the Twinkle of an Eye

I couldn’t control the actions of the angels when they swooped down to earth and snatched her from my life, but I could control the amount of blood that was pouring from my heart.  I certainly had the ability to take responsibility for my reactions.           

If I wrote about the holes in my heart, perhaps the memories would rush in and plug them up. The more memories that flooded my soul, the more holes I could possibly repair. Writing about the pain brought me closer to her. Writing about her made the pain more bearable.

As my pen carried me deeper into my grief, I was able to let certain parts of me die. Being able to write about grief can be equated to cleaning out an attic. Every so often you have to go up there, weed through the collectibles and throw away that which you don’t need anymore. If you don’t, the excess weight will eventually weaken the floorboards and send them crashing down on your head.

I would pick up a memory, inspect it, reminisce about it and decide whether  I should keep it or toss it out. It wasn’t a question of keeping good memories and throwing out bad ones - it was deciding which were the most important ones, the most cherished ones that would bring me serenity and strength. It was a matter of saving the memories that would allow the love we once shared to grow within me. So if a memory had to be discarded, I would mourn a little and then bury it.

Death is a great teacher. I only hope I was a good student. There were many days when I marched straight up to his desk and tried to hand in my resignation card. I wanted out of his class! Transfer me, flunk me, or kick me out of school. Part of me didn't care. I had had enough of his brutal lessons. It was bad enough the tuition I paid to get into his class was the death of my grandmother. I didn’t have to sit around and let him tear what was left of my heart to shreds.

But another part of me did care. Another part of me knew that if I quit life, it would have proven that Death won. If I had given into Death, all that my grandmother taught me and all that she stood for would have also died. She believed that there were times when stubbornness was a virtue, and right now, I needed all the virtue I could lay my hands on!

So for two years, I listened to Death’s teachings with my stubborn heels dug solidly in the ground. I endured his lectures that left me battered and bruised  and stood up to his exams with as much determination as I could muster.

I burned the midnight oil, cried myself to sleep, and picked up my pen when the morning light appeared. I went to his class every day, sat in the front row, and stared him down. I learned that Death is a formidable enemy, but as formidable as he is - and as cruel as his actions are - he does have one weakness. He does not like to be challenged!

That challenge allowed me to deal with my pain and released me from my fear. The completion of this book allowed me to reach the other side of grief - the side where rainbows exist and angels sing. The side of life where the Grand Perhaps resides.