I've been putting off doing this, but I have to do the photos for Rich's celebration now.
I mean, like now.
I need to double check the music length, and get on with it. I have some lovely ones from other people that I can use, so I just need to get on with it.
It seems so final though, but there won't be a finally for a long, long time.
There is the Cremation and Celebration on Monday.
There is the memorial in Cheltenham in September.
There is RAFWA.
There is the service in September.
There is the inquest.
There is the Year of Firsts.
What a lot of chances to celebrate what a wonderful man he was. I'm glad we get to do this, that I get to show what a great life he had, that I get to use pictures from other people that show his life before AC and I came into it. There may be pictures of him as a child, there may not be. I don't have those, so there's nothing I can do about it. And that's ok. I'm working with what I have, received from people who care about him.
This is really starting to show the talkers from the doers, and that's cool too. AC and I know who our real friends, real support are now. I wish we didn't, that Rich was still here with us, just on lates, like he should be this week, so due home in a couple of hours, but it isn't so.
To work.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Celebrate.
Last night I grieved.
It was a long and painful process and will no doubt have to be done again. And again. And again. Our future was going to be that bright!
This morning though, I need to celebrate.
I celebrate our hopes and dreams and plans. I read over his proposal again last night, and it thrilled me to read it again (yeah, he proposed the first time over MSN! He was away at the time!) and I could still see his face when he said what he said in the phoneshop.
I celebrate the plans for children that we had, the fun we had trying, the names we chose and the way he talked about them when they were here. The encouragement and love he gave me when they weren't again, and the strength in his voice when he held me as I cried, told me it would all be fine, that he loved me, he would always love me, and we would keep trying for as long as I felt I could. I celebrate his faith in me, in my body, in us, that we could talk about homebirths with confidence and understanding. I celebrate the things he shared about BG's arrival, and the joy with which he planned the arrival of our children.
I celebrate the love and pride he had in the AC, the school performances he was able to come to, the way he was so impressed by the school cup that the AC won the day before Rich died. I celebrate how protective he was of the AC, how he never let the AC hear him speak badly of his father, even though his father is an idiot at times. I celebrate the pictures I have of them playing, the games they enjoyed, the secrets that they shared and the love they had for each other.
I celebrate Ellie in the back garden, the faith he had in me to learn to drive. I celebrate every tray of shortbread he consumed, every "missing piece" from a plate of biscuits, every visit from the coffee fairies, every hour of being leant over a bonnet with him, every Landy show, every bike show. Every time we passed something on the road and one of us would go "Want that one!"
I celebrate the intimacy, the rightness, the completeness. I celebrate the way we enjoyed each others bodies, the way that it was never a chore, that it was never something we *had* to do. I celebrate the gentle touches on the way passed, having to "squeeze through" big spaces, every interrupted shower and bath, every moment that I looked up and found him just looking at me. Every "I love you", every "Where's my gorgeous darling?" everything.
Today I have the strength to choose to celebrate what were, as someone else has called them, the "Golden Years" of Rich's life. I am so lucky.
It was a long and painful process and will no doubt have to be done again. And again. And again. Our future was going to be that bright!
This morning though, I need to celebrate.
I celebrate our hopes and dreams and plans. I read over his proposal again last night, and it thrilled me to read it again (yeah, he proposed the first time over MSN! He was away at the time!) and I could still see his face when he said what he said in the phoneshop.
I celebrate the plans for children that we had, the fun we had trying, the names we chose and the way he talked about them when they were here. The encouragement and love he gave me when they weren't again, and the strength in his voice when he held me as I cried, told me it would all be fine, that he loved me, he would always love me, and we would keep trying for as long as I felt I could. I celebrate his faith in me, in my body, in us, that we could talk about homebirths with confidence and understanding. I celebrate the things he shared about BG's arrival, and the joy with which he planned the arrival of our children.
I celebrate the love and pride he had in the AC, the school performances he was able to come to, the way he was so impressed by the school cup that the AC won the day before Rich died. I celebrate how protective he was of the AC, how he never let the AC hear him speak badly of his father, even though his father is an idiot at times. I celebrate the pictures I have of them playing, the games they enjoyed, the secrets that they shared and the love they had for each other.
I celebrate Ellie in the back garden, the faith he had in me to learn to drive. I celebrate every tray of shortbread he consumed, every "missing piece" from a plate of biscuits, every visit from the coffee fairies, every hour of being leant over a bonnet with him, every Landy show, every bike show. Every time we passed something on the road and one of us would go "Want that one!"
I celebrate the intimacy, the rightness, the completeness. I celebrate the way we enjoyed each others bodies, the way that it was never a chore, that it was never something we *had* to do. I celebrate the gentle touches on the way passed, having to "squeeze through" big spaces, every interrupted shower and bath, every moment that I looked up and found him just looking at me. Every "I love you", every "Where's my gorgeous darling?" everything.
Today I have the strength to choose to celebrate what were, as someone else has called them, the "Golden Years" of Rich's life. I am so lucky.
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