Well hello, September. The older I get, the more quickly summers seem to fly by.
Laurie and I had supper on the deck last night in quiet remembrance of Ian. We were visited by a heron, and watched the sun set, and listened to the waves hit the shore as the wind came up. Autumn was in the air: not only the dip in temperature (our second frost warning of the month), but the great flocks of honking geese in their V formations, the bright maple leaves, some already falling, the scent of bonfires . . .
I had a lovely summer, full of the joys of the season. Swimming in Ontario’s lakes and rivers. Weeding my garden. Reading on my deck. Sitting with Doug, eating ice cream. Walking with friends. Picking wild blueberries. Once, maybe as recently as pre-Covid, I would have referred to those as “simple joys.” This summer they were everything.
And there was more! My summer was filled, unexpectedly, with live music. How had I forgotten how much I love listening to musicians and bands and singers? Sometimes inside, often outside. (And the weather cooperated for every outdoor concert and festival! Extraordinary!) Always a touch bittersweet because I am always aware that Doug is missing. The majority of my summer experiences were ones I had without him. (No, not true. Not just “the majority” - all of them.)
On Thursday August 4th, we marked our tenth anniversary. Well, I marked it, with Doug by my side. There was an outbreak at his home, but I was able to visit. We watched our wedding video on the big screen with some of the other residents. (A 92 year old gentleman commented, “Oh, you’ve always been old.” That made me laugh through my tears!)
This was not our plan. (Of course it wasn’t.) When we were on our Honeymoon, walking Hadrian’s Wall as a coast-to-coast, and the Speyside Way, we realised we couldn’t poke around every single historic site and visit every museum and also walk all day. We balanced as best we could, but agreed that we’d celebrate our tenth anniversary by retracing our steps with a museum day in-between each walking day. Doug joked that he’d be twice as fast a walker then, after a decade of running to keep up with my long stride. I promised I would never leave him behind.
It feels as if I have. Left him behind.
A new acquaintance, whose wife is living with a rare dementia, described it this way. “My role has evolved - from spouse, to caregiver, to, now, support person.” He cried as he said it. I cried as I listened. And then another of our new acquaintances asked, “And what would each of your spouses say to you now, if they could talk?”
I believe - I truly believe - Doug would tell me to follow my bliss. To live life to the fullest. To keep going to concerts, and on road trips with Donna and Lorie. To pull on my shoes and go for a walk. To plan visits with Mum, Mo, Laura, and Karen. To make the most of the next few weeks when I can still sit on the deck and read.
I have been carrying Kim Fahner’s These Wings with me all week, reading to anyone who’ll listen. (Bless my students for allowing me to start each class with a mini meditation or grounding moment, often in the form of a poem.)
