That Morning After

Little sweetheart, today is Ash Wednesday - rather unforgettable for it having been on March 9 in 2011, that morning after your accident.

From rushing to your side and tearing my shirt off to lay under and cradle your head, to rushing in a police car to the hospital where they had taken you and sitting on the floor outside the ICU waiting to able to finally see you, when the tears, overcoming the shock, broke through in a torrent that continues to this day and the sobs wracked my breathing, only ever one hard breath removed from me even now, I sat there. And as the night shift at SF General turned to the Wednesday morning one, I saw people arrive, both staff and visitors, with the sign of the cross in black ash marking foreheads.

It was an eerie almost surrealistic sight. And somehow quite appropriate. It signaled something urgent and other-worldly. In those days and hours that stay with me always I remember how my hand would involuntarily cover my mouth, a gesture of shock and grief, almost a cliche, but made now so true to my understanding. I think in those moments our souls very nearly leave our bodies, longing to join and merge with the most beloved - you.

It’s Ash Wednesday, little sweetheart, and my every thought, my every prayer, my entire being is with you. With all my love forever.