It’s been one hundred and ninety-four days since I have used
our swimming pool on Isla Mujeres. The last time I was in our pool was August
28th — about a week before my love, my life, my universe died on
September 3rd.
Today I poured myself a glass of wine, dangled my feet
over the edge and thought about my life — my life as Lawrie’s widow.
It’s a tough job.
He was so well-known, so loved, so happy, and so easy to
love that just seeing me brings tears to the eyes of our friends. They don’t
know whether to cry, to hug me, to talk about him or to just pretend that life
is really fricking lovely.
It’s okay. Just hug me. I cry every damn day, at
least ten or twelve times. I am happy that you remember him with such love.
Many of my male friends are reluctance to speak his name
because they are afraid of crying in public.
Well, there is one thing you may
not know about my funny, capable, smart, and very tough guy. He cried, and I
loved him more for the ability to publicly express his feelings.
The first time I saw him cry was in 1982 when we were
watching the original movie ET at the old Stanley Theatre on Granville Street
in Vancouver BC. He had tears streaming down his face.
He never ever felt the need
to apologize for his feelings and to me that showed me his strength. He knew he
could cope with a lot of shit, and crying in public wasn’t going to diminish his
abilities in the slightest.
As one dear friend said, “When I look at you I realize a
piece of the puzzle is missing.”
Yep! A huge piece is missing.
