I looked at the contents of my closet the other day and noted that it looked like the closet of someone in mourning. I suppose that’s about right. I’ve never been into bright wardrobe colors, rather consider that my choice of so much black, so much drab, identifies me as an artist. Do I have to be in mourning to be an artist? Do I have to feel the constant ache of a broken heart? A few weeks ago I marked the one year anniversary of Mike’s death—the latest in the death triology—my father dead, my brother murdered, Mike dead. And I thought maybe I was moving beyond the grief. Maybe. Maybe not.
The wonderful thing, perhaps the saddest thing is that Mike loved me. He told me I was the love of his life. He told me that the times he had with me—what he called “the adventure”—was the best time of his life. He said that even when he was dying. There’s a big hole left when someone who loves you departs this Earth.
A year is not nearly enough. I am learning what life is like without him. Sometimes it’s okay, but many times it’s incredibly lonely. I miss his music, I miss his strength, I miss his wacky sense of humor, I miss his knowledge of all kinds of trivia. Sometimes I’m not sure where I am without him. All I know is that I miss him and I don't have any idea how long I'll feel this way.
And the words of a song cycle through my head, Michael McDonald singing “without your love, where would I be now?” I guess I know the answer to that question.