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The ache-in-your-bones kind of loneliness. The loneliness of all the shared memories with loved ones now being yours alone.
His mother had always said that Fred had been born with an extra helping of love in his heart, and he thrived on sharing that love with those around him. The problem was now he didn’t have anywhere to put it. Grief was love with nowhere to go.
Here he was known—even if it was by another name. For so many years he’d taken for granted the significance of being known by another person, until it was all snatched away and he was suddenly a stranger to everyone he met.
“It’s one thing the dementia hasn’t stolen from us. When memory goes, you see, all that’s left is emotion. What we have for breakfast or where we parked the car or what year it is doesn’t matter, but we still feel who we love—and we love each other very, very much.”
From that day on he realized it was possible to grieve a living person.
Fred had learned all the tips and tricks over the years: never argue, go with the flow; never shame, instead distract; never condescend, always encourage. All the while, his heart was breaking.
“Feelings are like flatulence: better out than in, that’s what I always say.” Albert leaned closer.
I strongly suspect that sixty or more years from their wedding day, these two here will still be just as much in love. But it will be an even stronger love, strengthened by the daily exercise of choosing each other. Not just a love that loves when things are easy, when you’re feeling happy. No, it will be an unbreakable love that continues loving when things are hard. One that loves through bad times, through loss, in health, and in sickness.”
He let the memories sneak out of his tear ducts and roll down his cheeks.
“Like, I’ve met some pricks in my life but . . . but . . .” “He sounds like the full cactus, if you ask me.”
Mum had always told her that forgiveness had to be complete: “You can remember, but you can’t forgive halfway, Hannah darling.”
