80. Rare

"Some people come into our lives 

And leave footprints on our hearts 

And we are never ever the same."

I was reminded today for the millionth time of how much I miss my husband.  God, there just aren't enough people out there like him - he loved me as selflessly as a person could ever love another human being, and, as I continue to learn the hard way, that's so rare in this world.  I always knew I was lucky to have found such an incredible man so early in life.  I just didn't realize how lucky until I experienced the all the bad this world has to offer.

A week or two ago, I rolled over in bed and expected - for a brief moment - to see Jon lying there sleeping peacefully next to me.  His mouth would have been slightly ajar, head tilted back, breath sounds quiet and even - no snoring, thank God.  I always used to cuddle up to him and get as close as humanly possible, even when he'd  protest that it was too hot to have my leg draped over his and my head nestled in his armpit.  Just thinking about it now makes me smile - in my mind, I can almost recreate how good it felt to have that kind of intimate physical contact.  It's funny how things have changed.  My sleeping posture has now become very defensive.  I sleep in a king-sized bed and yet remain curled up in a little ball on the edge "my" side of the bed.  Despite sleeping alone, I've noticed I often cross my arms or stretch them out in front of me, as if to protect myself from further heartbreak by keeping unwanted physical contact far, far away.

It's interesting how many of the things I used to love or did without a second thought now cause me to take pause.  It's usually the littlest and most ridiculous of things that trigger the most pain.  Voice mail, for example.  I always loved to receive voice mails from Jon, particularly when he was feeling playful and would reference some silly inside joke to make me laugh.  I'd save them on my phone so I could go back later and listen to his voice.  I still have recordings of the last few voice mails he left me from Iraq - in fact, I listened to them all again last night.  I now have this inexplicable aversion to these kind of messages, no matter who they might be from.  I avoided setting up my voice mail box for months and continue, even now, to delete messages without listening to what they say.   If I see someone has called and I miss it, I'll call them back.  Voice mail has become like this unnecessary reminder of the fact that I won't be getting any more messages from Jon.  There are enough other things that remind me of this - I really don't need another.

I'm also far less talkative than I used to be - I'm happy to simply sit back and listen to what others have to say.  I take far fewer pictures - that was always Jon's job.  I construct huge defenses around my heart because I'm so terrified of being hurt again - and every tine I've let them down a little thus far, I face tremendous disappointment.  Jon was rare, and I recognize how lucky I was - albeit fleetingly - to have that kind of person in my life.  I do what I do now because of him to honor that rarity.  Jon always took pause to identify and point out the beautiful things in life, and I must do that now too.  I want others to understand how precious gifts like the man I married are...and how easily they can be lost forever to forces beyond our control.  There is no price you can place on such a rarity.  They say the best things in life are free...well, I'd tend to agree with that, but with one slight modification:  The best things in life are free from question and free from doubt. They are just rare.  And beautiful.  And that's all there is to it.