Six weeks out ...

... or is that six weeks in?

Six weeks out from losing him, six weeks into life without him.

Six weeks since I lost my love and the pain is still razor-sharp and raw.

I am sleeping better, finally, and talk with him before bed each night and awake accepting that he is no longer there but feeling blessed to have known him.

He was the gentlest, most generous, loving and empathetic person I have ever met, not just to me but to all he met, and I would gladly have given my life in place of his.

That's not a deal I was offered.

I feel honoured to have been with him in his last days, to have brought light and laughter back to his life and to be moving with him toward health and happiness. To have cooked together for each other and our friends, to have amused those same friends with teasing each other and them.

And as hard as it was, I'm glad I was with him at the end, to know he passed so peacefully and without any pain and to be able to assure his family of that. I hate to think of what would have been if we had not met.

But the knife stabs of missing him are continuous - each time I type the day's date, as I do multiple times each working day, I think of the date we met, the date I lost hime, the dates of his funeral services here and in the UK.

The knife twists savagely each evening, as I leave work and realise freshly that I am not going home to meet him, and never will again. The emptiness of evenings and weekends is a yawning and inevitable void that I have to consciously cross each day, each week.

I'm doing my best not to fall into that void, as I know that is not what he would want.

I'm spending evenings walking on the beach, or sitting watching the waves, or walking beside the river on my way home. I haven't done that in a while, being in a hurry to get to him instead.

I'm doing yoga, and checked out a gym nearby where I'll probably start a six-week kettle bell challenge next month. That will give me a positive focus for my evenings and  weekends as well as tiring me in a way yoga doesn't.

I've stopped drinking for now - I was being careful not to drink much after he passed but was going to my local simply for human company. I've always been content with my solitude but since losing him, I've needed kind words and friendly faces.

I'm still stopping by those places, but ordering soda water instead of wine, as I know alcohol won't make me feel better. But I still want to see our friends, to laugh with them and share stories of him. I don't think I'll ever tire of that.

As much as I grieve for him, I grieve for our unrealised future and unfulfilled plans. I know he is at peace and suffered no pain, but I also know how much it would pain him to see how those who love him are suffering.

I'm trying to respect those who were part of his entire life, and and those who shared much longer parts of it than I but find myself inadvertantly bumping up against them at times as we all negotiate our way forward while not knowing what that entails. The lines of communication are unclear and it is my nature to ask for clarification when that occurs, but that is not the way of those he has loved far longer than I.

I'm doing my best to move forward carrying his wairua with me and and to honour him by doing so.

Step by painful step, day by painful day.