I sit here on my deck, nursing a recent tattoo touchup, while reading the end pages of a memoir of a lady diagnosed with early-onset dementia.

Minutes earlier, I read a post about a wonderful woman who died of cancer in 2017– a writer up to the near-end. Every one of her posts were reposted after her death. Her final one, on the horizon, initiate the end of her blog.

Both sadden me.

Yes, the end of life, but also the end of their reach for life to the very end.

Their lives, my life, all life, but a vapor.

I remember all the writing I poured to pages after Bill died, and hope they don’t go dormant, not just yet.

So I will share them here.

Glimpses of Life

Maybe this is as good a title as any, as it flows through the fingers without any effort.  That, and it was a declaration I gave in desperation–for life. One I promised God that I would meet Him at the kitchen table for one year, hoping at the end, I would desire to live again.

Before the year was up, I realized life rose up on many occasions, here and there– in a spark of joy, a surge of energy, a rush of excitement.

Glimpses of life.

There are around 250 daily entries I will share. Some brief and choppy, and as labored as breathing.  Some long. Some repetitive. Some, well, if you follow along, you will see glimpses of life rise up from the darkness in the most unusual ways from a mysterious, yet intimate, God.

Few were shared on my previous blog.

All get me through one day, to the next.

I will title them by number.  Example:  Day One, two, three, etc. You get the point.

All point to a desire to reach for life after his death.

Words, like life, are only a vapor.

May these words speak life to you before they retire to a shelf, and to memory.

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Day One:

I make it through the first day in small increments.

I attempt to push away his face from my mind, the moments before, and all the details that accompany the official death.  But, I can’t. I feel exposed. Raw. People entering my home without invitation, as if I were a criminal. I know this is procedure, and not the people, but the police are callus to my condition, with the exception of one kindhearted woman.

I am so heartbroken I feel like I want to die. Not really die, but the weight of heaviness hurts my insides so badly I just want out of the pain before me.

…

The adrenaline refuses to relinquish its right to my system, so I down a glass of wine in hopes to numb it down. I sit in the bathtub, pulling out every kind of trick in my fall- asleep bag to enter slumber, to escape the hurt. Right before drifting off, I cry out a faint petition to God,

God, give me something.

Not a couple minutes later, the door to my bathroom opens and Ky emerges. For real?
She informs me there are two women at the door who want to pray with me.
I feel my blood boil. I am near sleep and someone decides to come over today of all days?
I tell her that she should go and pray with them. She leaves.

I close my eyes again. Not another minute later, Tay enters and asks who the two people are that are walking to the car. I tell her to go fetch them before they leave, and I get out, dry off, and put my grungy attire back on. I walk out in the other room and see the familiar face of one of the ladies.

Apparently, she had no idea that Bill had passed, but had a strong sense that God wanted her to come over to pray for his healing. I tell her it was too late for that.

She wonders if they can pray with us.

Of course.

“Can we pray in the bedroom?” I ask, knowing the difficulty being in there, especially since the hospital bed sits in the corner, naked of its bedding we disposed of in large garbage bags, and tossed in the trash.

The steel frame sits there, glaring at me.

…

They anoint us with oil and speak wonderful words into our parched spirits.
I thank her as a realization occurs: I specifically asked for something from God.
And He gave me someone.

I can breathe again. If but for a moment.

…

Hours before he left us, I clipped a small part of hair at the widow’s peak. It was my favorite spot. How fitting to have a name such as this. I hold this small lock and rub it as one would a rabbit foot, and calm formulates from within, and I wonder, if maybe even for one moment, I will be okay.