• Lounge > The Kitchen Sink
• Posted Sunday, July 24, 2011
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Summer Leigh Shapiro asked me to post this today Saturday, July 23, 2011. We love you, Summer. -Eff

This one is hard to write. It's something I've known was coming, and would need to be said. I was hoping to push it out by at least a few more days, but... this is the right day and time. I need to get it out. I know it's going to be difficult to be concise, and in the words of Paul Simon, "I hope my meaning won't be lost or misconstrued".

It's amazing to me what clearing out a house in preparation for a move can uncover, emotionally. As I clean out closets and cabinets and drawers, I continually rediscover reminders of events, people, and moments. Things I'd forgotten... or perhaps more honestly, had chosen to put away for the time being.

Just a bit ago, I was cleaning out my closet and came across a rolling travel bag. Recognition hit me like a train; it had been Keith's... and had been the carry-on bag I'd taken to Kentucky for his funeral. Almost one year ago. It was still partially packed with paperwork (police reports, medical information, cemetery details) that I hadn't had the fortitude to look back over.

Part of me can't believe it's been that long, and part of me feels like it's been an eternity.

For days, weeks, after his passing, I was angry that the sun continued to rise and set. For so many months, I would wake up every morning feeling as though the whole world was spinning while I was standing still. How dare it? How dare the celestial beings and the whole circle of life not take at least a moment to acknowledge what had been lost? The sun should've stood still in the sky. The clock should've stopped its incessant rotating of hands. Just for a minute, at least.

But it's been a year, now. That devastating summer eventually changed into autumn, then winter, spring, and summer again. Birthdays and milestones came and went. I celebrated Thanksgiving with my daughters, my sister, and good friends. Christmas night, I watched snow fall on the peaks of the Blue Ridge mountains. In May, I turned another year older. And now, while I don't think it's possible to ever fully move on, I am moving forward.

I can accept now (though I still grieve) that on August 5th, 2010, my best friend, my husband, and the father to my children, died. I am starting to accept, though it's still difficult and painful, that I will never know how or why. And I am now ready- in some ways, very ready- to accept the challenge of starting over. I have survived. I'm ready to attempt thriving.

With every new day, I find a little more of the "just existing" dropping away. I discover more. Embrace more. I dance more. Even if it's just by myself in the living room, grooving out to some rediscovered music of my youth. I laugh harder and sing louder and hug longer. I cry harder, if less frequently. I dust off aspects of my identity that have been hidden in corners for far too long, and dive headlong into things I've always been too afraid to learn or try. Like the seasons, I have become Summer, again.

I intend to live Life, and to live it with passion.

Unexpectedly, and inexplicably, I see this next year as brimming with wonder and promise. I feel like a bird with a broken wing that, while not yet ready to soar exactly, is impatient to take off. I've questioned everything, found myself utterly devoid of answers, and have come out, not terrified, but excited beyond reason to just be open to understanding. I'm ready for the New.

And here's the part I want most for all of you to take away: this is, in no small way, because of you.

I finally had the courage and the clear mind, tonight, to revisit my first Open Letter... the one I'd written just after Keith's funeral. I hadn't been back over it since the last comment was posted. This prompted me to dig way back and reread emails, personal messages, and posts to my wall. Then I remembered phone calls. Visits. Moments spent at dance events. The half dozen floral arrangements sent to me, unexpectedly, on Valentine's Day. Moments of embrace followed by a sincere "How are you doing?" Times spent laughing over, or passionately discussing, unrelated things.

You all were hard-hit, too. Keith's death wasn't just a shock to me, it was a shockwave that reverberated, and continues to, throughout our whole community. I had always thought it odd that Keith didn't really have a "best friend". It wasn't until now that I realized this was because he had so many. And when the unfathomable happened, you took me in and gave me exactly what I needed to get through.

In revisiting this last year, I recognized a truth. Sometimes, when a person suffers a life-altering event, the response is like a sudden fall of rain. It happens all at once, and then it dries up.

You all, through these last twelve months, have instead been a fountain. Constant, circulating, unceasing. Steady.

There has not been a single day that I've not taken comfort in the fact that, if I need to, there's someone in this community I can talk to. Even if just about mundane crap. There's never been a single night when someone wasn't calling me or chatting me or visiting me, just wanting to be in my company.

In my last Letter, I thanked you all for what you'd done right then. For your initial response, and your engulfing comfort. Today, nearly a year later, I'm thanking you for remaining with me. For being friends that reacted immediately and then never left. Your encompassing love and support has enabled me to heal. And I ask, humbly and with a full heart, that you now be willing to be with me, and bear with me, as I take these next steps.

And I reiterate something I've said again and again-- I have the best friends in the world. And I want you to know that I place tremendous value on each and every one of you. Life is too short to not fully be present with and completely celebrate the lives that we are given the honor of engaging.

From Summer (redbean)