I slept well last night. I woke up once at 5 a.m. then slept again. I had decided to stop waiting for David to talk to me, like Stew used to after he died. I must be a visual person. Images help trigger conversations with my beloved but sadly dead husbands. Framed photos of Stew hang in my office – including an oil painting done by a friend but if I want to talk to David it turns out I need more than ashes in a black box. Perhaps my good sleep came from feeling together enough before I went to bed last night to scroll through my iPhone photo stream and find that picture I took on David’s 75th birthday, in which he smiles his famous David smile; his lips are as red as if he’d put on lipstick. As I watched the photos march toward present time like ants across my tiny screen, I David’s lips lost their color, his face beaome more wrinkled and gaunt. When David was alive, I had neither the courage nor the time to look at photos. Had I done so, I wonder if I would have picked up on what I can see so clearly after the fact – death imprinting itself month after month on David’s face.
Its been only 25 days since David died. I’m not even through the 30 day mourning period traditional Judaism gives me. But at least for the moment I’ve stepped off my Macy’s up the down escalator onto a solid floor. I still can’t handle stress in any form but as soon as I get my pictures back from being transerred out of digital to print, I’ll talk with David any time I want.