I can’t figure out what it is that I am supposed to do, now.

Some moments, I think I’m simply supposed to wait until it’s my turn to join him. Other moments, I think I’m supposed to continue living, and push him from my mind.

I’m sure it’s a mixture of both.

He wasn’t a part of most of my life. A small fraction of it, really. But he WAS my life. The entire thing pretty much summed up to his smile. I would wake up on weekends to find it in my face, and I couldn’t imagine a better life.

I’m supposed to accept that, and yet, be angry about not having it anymore. I’m supposed to ask why, and wait for the answer. I’m supposed to make sense out of nonsense.

But what if there is no sense?

I hate how we humans deal with our dead. And I hate how death actually happens. I hate what’s left of it when it does happen, and I hate how we resolve it, or absolve it, or even absorb it. We bury the remains under layers of dirt and time, like bad secrets that have been discovered, and we don’t know what to do with. Is the reality of death simply that our hearts and minds stop functioning? Do we console ourselves by believing in an afterlife that doesn’t exist?

Even in my cynicism, I don’t believe that. But I sometimes think that God left us with a terrible paradox. Remains have always puzzled us. If they disappeared on their own, we might have better closure. But they don’t. They rot and fall away, into the ground and become pitiful remnants of what we remember to be a robust vehicle of life, as we are. When that life is gone, what is left is meant to humble us. To remind us of our keeping. To me, it’s an insult to the life we lead, that is supposed to be a means to an end.

I’m angry, but I don’t know what I’m angry about or at whom. God? Jon? Myself? None of these targets seems to satisfy that question. And I think I’m angry at life. I’m angry that it’s so damn short. I’m angry that I have to give up the life I was living, without consent and without purpose. I have NO idea where to go from here, and even if I think positively, it’s marred by the idea that no matter what else I do, Jon will not be a part of it. That is simply not how it was supposed to be.

We knew, years ago, that everything we wanted in our future was based upon the contingency that it would include the two of us. He was going to be part of all my future memories. My children would grow to be products of our joint parenting, and our virtues, values and faults would be evident between them. Everyone has plans like these. Why does everyone else get to keep them, and not I? Not us?

And now, no matter how hard it is to believe, I have to EXCLUDE his input, his guidance, and his very presence from my future. Sometimes, I’m sure I can feel him around me. Other times, it’s just easier to remember that I’m on my own. That I am carrying the weight of my own world on my back, and dragging my girls along with it. I’m a single parent, and it’s not my fault. I didn’t sleep around and get myself into trouble. I didn’t cheat, lie or abuse my marriage or my husband. But he was taken away from me just the same, and by a God that HAD to know that how devastating it would be to my life, and the life of our girls. A God that knows everything, from beginning to end. And somehow, that God wants me to see from His birds-eye-view. See My plan, He says…

I’m sorry God, but I wasn’t built with lofty stature or even the means to reach that high. I cannot see what You’re planning, and I cannot see how I’m going to ever stop hurting. I cannot fathom ever not missing Jonathan, and I can’t figure out what to do with all the love I still have for him, as a carnal man, and a husband. His death is completely unfair. While his life is fulfilled and completed – my life, that was bound to his, is tattered, ripped and left alone.

If You want me to see Your plan, You’re going to have to give me a boost.

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