Just Like Me

Little sweetheart, it's so very lonely here without you. Some days, sometimes, often, I don't know what to do with myself at all. I try to busy myself with work and, perhaps too much, distractions. But sometimes I simply ache and cannot find my way. I know in these moments it's important that I listen for you the most intently.

The weekends are often among the hardest. It all seems so lonely here. If I stay at home I get a little stir crazy but if I go out I somehow feel even more alone. It may well stem from the earliest of days after your passing when I rented a car and thought to drive down the coast, stopping in Carmel - a place that was holy to us, full of wonderful memories. But when I got there, its magic was gone and I felt cripplingly alone. Every place was changed in your absence. I walked the pretty streets in tears and I couldn't even go to the ocean - I hid behind a tree and wept. I fell to the floor in the little hotel room I booked - one I'm almost positive was the same one you and I had stayed in together once before - and cried and cried. I got a friend on the phone and she told me to get out of there. Just turn in the key, get in the car and drive back north.

That spooked me from all further travel. Indeed, maybe spooked me from doing much of anything. It all seemed so terribly sad and lonely to go anywhere without you. It remains so to this day.

But one thing I have been trying to do a little is at least make myself go for a walk on Saturday or Sunday. I have a membership at The Met. I hardly ever go unless someone is visiting from out of town or at Christmas when they have the big tree in the Gothic Hall. Remember how you and I used to go and I would take you to all my favorite rooms? Well, I've been trying to stop in there the last couple of weekends. It's a nice long walk up to and through the park. And on Saturdays they're open till nearly 9pm.

I went today, little sweetheart, and I looked at all the works - the paintings and sculptures and artifacts and period rooms - we like. Courbet's "Woman in the Waves", Jan Steen's "Merry Company on a Terrace", the huge Pollock's and Rothko's and the Delvaux and Balthus in the Modern section. The French rooms (the English ones are closed for renovation). The Panorama was closed both days but the Frank Lloyd Wright room and the McMead Stair Hall were open. And I went all the way over to the back of the museum to see that little ceramic ring flask that's so beautiful and amazing before I settled into the wonderful room there in the very rear with the red velvet walls and the blue love seat that you're allowed to rest on and take in the two big El Greco's and two large Rembrandts looming above.

I especially love these two El Greco's - the one of a satin robed Saint Jerome and the one of Christ at Gethsemane, carrying his cross, his eyes heavenward and tear-filled. I've both been here curled up with you and been here alone looking up at his watery eyes feeling my own sorrow well up in my chest and my tears come, so desperate for your company, for you - the other half of my soul.

As I sat there today in a quiet moment that found me alone in the room after a few people had passed through, I saw a young couple approaching. They were Italian, I think, or maybe Spanish. European. They looked nice. He had a very kind face. I thought for a long time after that he reminded me of someone. Either someone that I actually know or someone from a film or something I'd seen. I finally figured out that he reminded me of Mathieu Kassovitz - the boyfriend in "Amelie". They were speaking in their own language, of course, but when I addressed him, he immediately picked up in English.

I got up and said, "I think you guys should sit down here together and look at these two El Greco's." He smiled and said, "you think we should sit here?". I said, "yes, it's a beautiful room." And as I walked away they settled in together, having the room to themselves.

Somehow I felt that you were with me right after that, my little sweetheart, and I spoke to you. "Let's get out of here, right, little sweetheart?". I left, crossing back out through the Gothic Hall and on downstairs by way of the side entrance and started walking home through the park at 79th Street.

As I walked on the path there just before getting to the Great Lawn, I saw something - a helium balloon. It was tied to a park bench with no one around it. It was a mylar balloon, the kind you get for a birthday or some other occasion. It said "I Miss You". And there it was all on its own, just like me, doing a little dance in the breeze.

One could think of it as a terribly sad sight but in this context I saw it more as a sign. A sign of you telling me you know how sad and lonely I am and that you miss me too but that you are here. You are far closer than I can imagine. And I just need to remember that, look and listen for you, and keep the faith. Thank you, little sweetheart. Thank you, my darling girl. Love you forever.