I had braced myself for the holidays. They are mercifully over. But now I feel worse. The new year is supposed to be a new beginning, but all I can do is cherish the past. There is no light on the horizon. No new life. All I can do is gracefully wait for it to be over. To be freed of the chains of existence.
I know there are heavier burdens than mine. I will try to be generous with what I have left to offer. I sent a contribution to the project that made his last days brighter. I know he would have wanted to keep that promise unbroken. A part of him will live on in the extreme passion he lived and preached. That's all I can do.
I decided I don't want his remains scattered in this country. It wasn't kind to him and he railed against it. What I didn't expect was that shopping for an urn to keep his ashes in would bring me down so. Hiding him within a pretty object is not what he would like. His friend, who visited on New Year's eve asked to see them and cried. I look at them every day and feel nothing. I know that's not him. I knew it even when I saw his stiff body emptied of its organs. His body let him down. He was so much more than that. He was light. And darkness. His father painted a shadowy half-angel just before he died. There is more of him in that than in the white ashes in the black box.