My second set of holidays started off promising enough. Maybe I had a little Post Traumatic Stress from the holidays before, cause though I was invited out for Thanksgiving, my panic attacks grew worse and more frequent over the three days I was away from home. Watching a young family starting out in life, full of hopes and dreams and possibilities was beautiful. As I stood on a staircase landing listening to their plans for the future, I suddenly realized that my family's hope and dreams weren't going to be realized. We got the time we were meant to have and it was over. At thirty-seven I was a bit old to start over entirely, no young children for me, my life is half over already. In that moment I realized there are opportunities lost to me that I will never regain.
Christmas was better. I spent it back in New York, where it all began. I spent a few days in the city and then Christmas with his cousin, who we had stayed with exactly ten years earlier. Ten years prior when Steve asked me to marry him. Steve was born and raised in New York so every street corner held memories. I visited some of our old haunts, his old neighborhood, places we wanted to go together but never got around to visiting. Beautiful memories. And they kept me warm on those blustery winter streets.
Christmas with Steve's family was bittersweet. I kept expecting him to pop from around a corner at any moment. I saw how much the children had grown since we had last seen them. Marveled at his cousin's new house in Steve's place. Saw his twinkling eyes in his family's faces, heard his laughter emanate from his family's mouths, watched his gestures from his family's hands. And though he was rarely mentioned, we all acknowledged his presence. I felt as though I was there in his place; to see, and hear, and support those he loved most. That was my gift to Steve, my gift to his family, my gift to myself.
This is my third set of holidays since Steve died. There are a whole new set of complications this year. This year I'm spending the holidays with my boyfriend and his children. Two beautiful young girls who keep me laughing, and guessing, and completely in the moment. A man who makes me happy, worries about stepping on memories of Steve, never allows me to cry alone, and puts the biggest smile on my face when he walks into the room.
I spent the night before Thanksgiving looking around my house, imagining what it would look like if Steve were alive. What it looked like in years past as we prepared to host another feast. I thought about the past two Thanksgivings since Steve died. I wondered how I managed to survive this long without him when I never believed I could make it a day. And I got the crying out of my system. I spent Thanksgiving day navigating new traditions, navigating youthful meltdowns and jubilations, navigating the complications and the joys of a new life.
This is my third holiday season without Steve. Each year it hurts. Each year it hurts differently. But each year it gets a little easier. This year, it's finally getting to be a life. My life. My life after Steve.
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Today's post is part of a monthly blog-hop (first Wednesday of each
month). It's a way to find other widow/er bloggers to read, interact
with, discuss, and follow. Feel free to leave comments, send e-mails,
share and interact. The following links are to other blogs participating
in this month's hop. Hope you find someone and something new that helps
you.
