In medias res, I think to myself last night. This random literary term popping into my head. In media res- right in the middle. Milton's Paradise Lost begins in hell for example, after the angels have already fallen. And that is where we left off- in medias res.
It is hard to distinguish grief from love- the two erupted so much at once and have remained inseparable for some time now. So I often ask myself, how does one let go of grief (not that it's simply a process of will) and hold onto love? Where will the love go? In happy memories? Those are still too painful and will never, never, be happy, despite what well-wishers believe. To the future? At a time when I might see you again in the flesh? Or will it just float up into the air like the hundreds of balloons little children who've lost a parent send "up to heaven."
All of the arguing and late nights and counseling and hurting and healing, I see now as only tributaries. Our conflict was carving tributaries into my being. It made sure the love reached every island and inlet- it courses through my veins I guess.
I imagine your death and my love for you now like the white carpet rolled out before the bride walks down the aisle, like the flower petals dropped by a pretty little girl, laid out for me to walk the rest of this way.