That Hair

 I was chatting with Adrienne about the show "Our Flag Means Death."  I mentioned that I thought the Blackbeard character was hot.

I said that I had a thing about long hair on guys, and that I like my men a bit on the feral side.  Then I sent her a picture of Bob's hair.

She said it was gorgeous, but too well groomed to be considered feral.  I said that I had groomed it for the photograph.  And I left it at that.  No need to buzzkill.

So I didn't say that I groomed it, photographed it, then braided it and cut it off (yes, I still have the braid).  It was just before we went to Shands and we knew he'd be in bed a lot so it would be easier to care for if we cut it.  We also knew (but didn't want to admit) that after he got the chemo he would lose it anyway.

I miss that hair.  I miss him.  I always do, but yesterday was a rough one.  I had a dream (something about building scenes for the Halloween Howl.  I didn't see him, but I knew he was there - maybe at another scene.  It's a common theme for dreams I have of him; I know he's there somewhere, just out of sight.

I ended up feeling that way for the rest of the day.  I could sense him - he was just to my left, slightly behind me.  I kept thinking that if I could just hold very still, just reach my hand back, just look out of the corner of my eye, I'd be able to see and touch him.   So close.

Sometimes I feel my age.  Maybe.  I'm turning 70 in 5 months, and I don't know what 70 is supposed to feel like, or how I'm supposed to behave.  The problem is that Bob always looked at me like I was 19.  I used to tease him about it.  A little while before he died, I looked at him and said "But I won't be 19 any more."  And he smiled and replied "Well, maybe it's about time you turned 20."

So in some respects, I've aged 50 years in the last two.

It's now hitting 3 years since his diagnosis.  I'm not going to wallow in it like I did last year - that was something I allowed myself to do once.  I can always go back and read it now if I want to.  But it's still there, nonetheless.  And it explains why I can be working on something - setting up the loom for weaving, or working in the yard, and realize that I'm crying.  Because he's still there - close - but just out of reach.