Sometimes, I wish I could stop talking like Peter is still living. I used to quote Peter and tell stories about Peter. He peppered most every conversation I had with others. His brilliant thoughts coming out of his brilliant mind, crept into my conversation somehow, some way. I still slip him into conversations as if he was still living. I mean, yes, he’ll always live in my thoughts and heart, but I mean, really living…in person…with me…and sometimes, when I do talk about him as if he still is living, it hurts more when I realize he’s not.
Sometimes, I wish people understood the true impact on me of Peter’s death. I wish they were more gracious, more understanding, more aware of his absence in my life and how I am still mourning him. Sometimes, I have higher hopes in people than they actually can deliver.
And then, sometimes, I also wish people didn’t tiptoe around me. I wish an invitation would be offered to me without fear of how it would make me feel. I wish they would realize how important one is and extend it to me, even with a “I know it’ll be hard and I understand if you can’t” opening. Sometimes, I wish people had a balance.
Sometimes, I wish I could let go of the disappointment I have in the people who should have been there for me during this time. Yes, I am so blessed by so many, especially my sisters by choice. They filled the gaps left by others, and then some. They did so wonderfully and I would have never made it without them. Yet sometimes, I dwell too much on those who would have, should have, been the fillers.
Sometimes, I wish I knew ahead of time how my mom is going to be when I visit her. I wish I could know if I will have the mom who can keep a conversation going, delighted to see me, engaging, and remembering Peter died. Or, I wish I knew if I am going to have a visit like today, one where I spent time convincing her she wasn’t dead and then some more time comforting her when she said but she wanted to die. Perhaps if I did, I would avoid the latter visit because it rips apart my already fragile heart as I think how unfair Death was to take someone who wanted to live and leave behind someone so ready. Sometimes, I would like to know so I can selfishly decide.
Sometimes, I wish I knew the words of comfort for my children, and I knew how to deliver them. I know their grief is deep and I would be much happier if I could heal them like when they skinned their knee. But it’s their hearts have been shredded and I don’t know the words or have bandiade, or can plant the kisses to make it ll better. So I carry their pain on top of mine and sometimes, that hurts more.
Sometimes, I want the ability to convey my needs without hurting others, especially my children. I want to express what I need to get done in order to move on and in a way that doesn’t overwhelm or put anyone in the position of guilt or anger. It seems I fail many times and sometimes, I need to know how to map it all out before my delivery.
Sometimes, I wish I didn’t have my good days. I wish them away because the bad days always loom and it’s then I realize, I’m not done grieving. I wish I could have all the bads at one, get them over with, then the good days can stay with me and I’ll never have to slip back to the bads. Sometimes, the good days just serve as a tease and I’m too tired to be played with.
All the time, I wish for my life with Peter back. A life I could count on – a life with the good and the fights, and the mundane. With every part of me, I want Peter, and all his brilliance, his comfort, his humor, his feel, his taste, his everything, back with me…all the time.