He who shall not be named
I stood graveside with yellow daffodils, the national emblem of Wales, in honor of my mother-in-law Gertrude, deceased now for one-and-a-half years. I had tried to get my husband Alejandro to make a plan to visit her on Mother’s Day, but he said that he couldn’t bring himself to do it. And there I stood, not sure what to think of that, but I knew why I had come.
I had a different life before. One in which I swam purposefully through the ether with the mate to my soul. We recognized our connection as source-- the light and love that others only dream of holding in the physical realm. We fancifully frolicked and literally wept for the rest of the world which couldn’t, or wouldn’t-- out of fear of work or by random exemptive turn of the wheel-- feel such deep knowing of the guiding secrets of the cosmos. We wanted to share all of us, our totality, with everyone. Friends commented on the manifestation of our relationship as tangible, that watching us say goodbye felt like the force of magnets being separated; strangers walked between us and stammered, “Whoa… what was that?” Our eyes would meet and my heart would explode with the validation of being seen, with the possibility that others could feel our love, and with the hope that this kind of love was infinite and could heal so many.