I have had an upsetting conversation at work today, with someone who was dissatisfied by an earlier interaction that we had during the week. She told me her part of the story and did not leave me much room to tell mine. Going home today, I spent some time writing a letter of reply. I was going to let the whole thing pass, but decided that I actually care about having my side heard, and properly and thoughtfully expressed, which was better done on paper than in person.
I then curled up with a book and with Adrian's urn, which I felt a strong need to nestle near my chest tonight. I wondered why, why now, as I don't usually do that. I felt peaceful doing it, not like the usual urge of desperation that prompts me to reach for the little metal urn. (It is a pretty, tiny urn, with metallic green flowers and birds engraved on it, and it sits on my night table). Then I started to slowly get a grasp as to why I felt like hugging Adrian, or what is left of him.
When I lost him, when he died, I promised myself and him that I would live our life for both of us, as best as I could. I promised him that I would do a good job of living out his days, that had been somehow passed on to me. I felt that it was the one last thing I could do for him, one last thing that would take a lifetime to achieve, but a real gift to the little man that never was to be, that never got to live, other than through my eyes, my mind, my soul.
And I realized that tonight, through taking the time and having the courage to write this letter, I was holding true to my promise, I was living out the best life that I could. For Adrian, and for me.