I just sat a spell in my hot tub, watching the alpenglow on the bare trees at the end of day. Except that something’s wrong with that sentence. How can it now be “my” hot tub? It’s always been “our” – for our home, for our family room, for our bedroom.
For countless years, when we turned off Sunset Road onto Bostwick, I would say “Home road, Jodiette.” To which my lovely wife would reply, “Home road, Mr. Kerr.” And we continue that nice little conversation after Jody’s death. May we ever say these words to each other. They’re ours.
I’ve thought of our e-mail address: firstname.lastname@example.org. Should I change it? And the answer comes back swiftly … no. Jody is very much still with me, just not in a physical form. People who write to me also write to her.
Since I was introduced to the Buddha, I haven’t liked “my, me and mine”. It just doesn’t seem right. I share this world with so many others. It is truly “ours”. And the prime person with whom I share the joys and sorrows of existence is my darling girl.
And now I’m crying again. It’s okay. Jody’s fine with it. She just keeps reminding me, “I am here, Bruce.” It is our life to explore … still.