Mach3Multisport.com

Jon died one year ago today. It's hard to believe, even as I type the words, well, even as I have lived it really. It's been a year of questioning and contemplating, of disbelief and grief, and of healing and maybe, moving on. What does that mean, moving on? It's a concept that makes my mind sway back and forth. Moving on...it kind of rings in my ears and it is something I want to acheive and run from all at the same time.

 Moving on...I want to move on from the pain, definitely, and for the most part, I have. Every once in a while I will get that familiar pang..right in the heart...and I talk and write and do whatever it takes to deal with that pain at that moment so it doesn't linger and send me back to my good friend the couch.

Moving on...it's a fine line because I don't want to forget him. The goodness of him...the him that I fell in love with. The guy, Jonny, the funny, Monkish, passionate, story-telling pain in the fanny. And he was a pain in the fanny. But in a way that makes you smile, not want to wring his neck. He was so particular about everything...his food...don't even try to get him to eat chili, or beans - unless they were black beans, but whole, not mashed. Forget avocados, coffee, and it better be Coke, not Pepsi and don't even try to tell him what RC is...he wouldn't hear of it. Ice cream was all good as long as it was mint. And Ben and Jerry's. And Breyer's. But mint.  His clothes had to be hung from dress shirts to t-shirts, each assorted by sleeve Length and color and they all had to hang the same length. One time he yelled at me from the back bedroom..."Susie, come Monk my closet!" "I'm working!" I yell back. So, he keeps saying the same sentence but accentuates it differently every time. "Susie, come MONK my CLOSET", "SUSIE, come monk MY closet", "susie COME MONK my closet". Which sends me into peels of laughter and I of course go Monk his closet. After 20 mins of color coordinating and adjusting them so they are all hanging evenly, he is still focused on the eveness. "Joohnn," I wail. "They are all even." He insists they are not. So, I repeat the same sentence over and over.."Jon, they ARE all even." JON, they are ALL even." I don't get a third one out before he scissors his legs around my stomach and pulls me off my feet right onto the bed and begins to tickle me...to which I am helpless. I am laughing uncontrollably and he won't release me until I promise to Monk his closet w/out complaining.  See, pain in the fanny, but in a way that makes you smile.

It's hard to know what the future holds and it is hard to know where my feelings will go. How do I move on w/out forgetting? There has to be a balance and I'm sure that is the final part of healing. I think I'm almost there.

So, as 8:35 approaches, I will close my eyes and think of this man, and raise a glass of Coke with one hand and a scoop of mint chip with the other. Here's to you, My Jonny. Here's to you.

Comments (0)

Subscribe to this comment's feed

Name

Email

Website

Title

Comment

Write the displayed characters

Add Comment