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The Missing Doesn't Stop, Does It?


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So very much to miss.

Missing his goofy smile, his crystal blue eyes, his quiet nature.

Missing his gentle touch, his nose in a book, his annoying habits.

Missing his companionship, his spontaneous acts of kindness, his willingness to love me even when I am not lovable.

So very much to miss.

The missing doesn't stop, does it?

Missing his hand on my face, his dirty laundry, his forgetting to stop by the store.

Missing lazy Sunday afternoons napping with him, his quirky surprises, his dry sense of humor.

Missing conversations about our son, sharing hopes and dreams, even arguments that ended in making up.

So very much to miss.

The missing doesn't stop, does it?

Missing him in my chest that hurts, in my hands that form clinched fists when I am angry, in my knees that knock out of fear.

Missing him in my feet as I struggle to keep balance, in my back as I carry this load, in my heart as it breaks again and again.

Missing him through my eyes that see constant reminders of him, in my nose which longs for his smell, in my ears that want nothing more than to hear his voice again.

So very much to miss.

The missing doesn't stop, does it?

No... It doesn't stop, but like a well-worn groove in a path much traveled, it becomes a common road on which we walk. 

It doesn't stop, but it becomes more tolerable.

No, the missing doesn't stop because the missing is a continuing of the love I have for him. 

Mary Beth

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mbbh, wonderfully expressive and heartfelt words.

And no, the missing doesn't end. We had a connection and a love that was too deep for that to ever happen. The pain and the sorrow won't leave either. It just becomes a question of learning to cope and function in a world that we didn't choose to live in. Moment by moment, day by day, our lost soul mate will always be in our thoughts. And their love will be forever inside us.

 

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No, the missing them doesn't stop.  (((hugs)))

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  • 4 weeks later...

I still reach for his hand.  Going into a store, being in the car, just walking across the street, I can still feel him around me, not his physical self, but my imagined physical self of him that I cannot get to talk to me.  He was not much for talking anyhow, but I would love to hear his voice in my head.  No, the missing never stops.  

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Susan held onto my arm as we walked. Recovering from a hip operation she didn't use a cane when she was with me; she said she had her "panda cane".  I'd always walk her home from the subway stop if there was snow on the ground. People I didn't even know now tell me they could tell how much we loved each other by the way we walked. Now I imagine that she's there, holding my arm. Tom?

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