I didn't cry today. Not yet anyway. That’s not progress. I’ve just been busy.

My husband died. It’s the first thing I think of when I feel the need to convey thoughts out to anyone under the tag of Grief. I feel the need to get that out there so as to explain why I’m sitting in front of the computer and typing anything to anyone on this subject.

It hasn’t been seven months yet. I could give you the exact time to the minute since he died but it matters only to me. I write of grief because it is what I am living through. Before he died, I was writing novels. I have four completed and haven’t found an agent. None of them are about grief.

I do not have a degree in psychology. I am not a counselor. I only know of grief from personal experience and write with the simplicity from being on the inside. Before my husband’s death I never sat at the computer, never blogged, and never wrote online articles. I write novels. They’re stacking up. My life did not revolve around the computer beyond checking email and balancing my checkbook. Now I write here, on a blog, and I play (drum roll) SuperPoke Pets. The habitats I create are dedicated only to my husband, my Dragon. Check it out.

I won’t apologize. I think of it as virtual therapy. I’m lonely. My children are grown. They are done. They don't need me like they used to and beyond their quick phone calls for advice like, “it's okay that the chicken cooked a little bit when you thawed it in the microwave,” they just call to keep in touch. My daughter needs me a bit more but my son also requires my love life advice. He’s a gentle soul in a world that requires a very thick skin. The one thing he said to me that brought me to my knees was that he wants to find a love like the one I had (have) with the Dragon.

I walked in to the widow’s group last week and the facilitator smiled at me and dropped the “F B” bomb.

“Hi, womanNshadows (she knows my real name and doesn’t call me this but I figured if I typed my real name here, you’d all wonder who we were talking about.). Well, it’s been six months. You should be FEELING much BETTER.”

There it was. Out there on the table like a pregnancy test waiting on the timer. I was expected to respond. So I nodded, grimaced, and said, “Yes, six months.”

For the time being, she let it go only to bring it up later.

I am existing each day and wondering where do I go from here? My home is not a house where I can paint the walls or go outside to a little yard to garden. I don't need to fuss over hydrangeas that are sitting in a row by a beautiful little fence. I don't have a gate to open to walk a path to ocean's edge. I live in a small apartment and am grateful for the sanctuary it offers. I have my work. I have iTunes and cable. I have food and I scrap by which is more than some have.

The sadness I feel comes from the realization that I don't have him to talk to. He’s not here to come sit beside me and coax me out from behind my book, or up from my sewing to go walk with him, do something with him. He’s not here to take me to the grocery store to pick out something for supper. I see his shoes in the closet and I know he won't be using them anymore but to give them away or toss them would be akin to an act of treason.

It’s cruel and it's so simple. The more I try to hold onto him, the less I have to hold onto. He’s gone. All I have are my memories and I’m told that he will someday become a sweet moment of sadness that passes by as I go on about my day. I take what other's who have had their spouse die tell me and try to see if it can be applied to my own life. Then I see that I am not there yet. I keep filling in the cracks that open up because of this grief and as soon as I address one, the next one is starting to open.

As I sat waiting for the meeting to get started I wondered how is it that a woman who has been in the bereavement business for over 25 years fully expects me to be better after six months? She nailed me again in the middle of the meeting. See, I’m the greenhorn, the Probie to use NCIS, which I brought up in the meeting in response.

“womanNshadows doesn’t seem to be doing better. Does anyone have anything to say to her?” And without letting anyone speak, she asks me with a quizzical tilt of her head that you see with puppies get when they hear a new noise, “Are you trying?”

I told her that I was not doing worse. I then said that there were examples of people who weren’t doing better after six months on television. (She loves television. I thought this was a safe bet.) I reminded her of the Leroy Jethro Gibbs character on NCIS who has obviously never gotten over the murder of his wife and child. He has married three other times and has had numerous relationships but keeps an audiotape of his wife talking to him, telling him how much she loves him. He does not seem to feel any real heartbreak over the divorces, but is haunted by the death of his first wife, the woman he connected with so strongly.

One show held a flashback that showed him killing the man who’d murdered her and his daughter. After he took the shot and confirmed the kill, he rolled over and yelled out his anguish to the world. My husband was still alive when we saw this show and he sighed. He told me, “There’s nothing left for him now but grief. His wife is dead and there’s nothing else for him to focus on. The guy responsible is dead so all he has left is that empty hole.” Then my husband reached over and grabbed my hand and squeezed. His eyes were glassy with unshed tears and he was staring straight ahead. He said, “I never want anything to happen to you. I don’t know what I’d do.”

Another example I offered is Adrian Monk from the show of the same name. I have off and on watched that series and this is the final season. I wonder how they will write the last episode? How will Monk handle not having the job of looking for his wife’s killer? I want to see that one. It supposedly has been ten or fifteen years now.

And there is a new show on the ABC Family network that I brought up. “Ten Things I Hate About You.” A woman who was quite obviously on the prowl asked the father of the two girls on the show about his marital status.

He said, “I’m recently widowed.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. How long ago did she die?”

Seeing the “he hasn’t been the instigator of a vicious divorce and the grief thing can’t last forever” look in her eyes, he said with a rueful smile, “Seven years.”

The facilitators return comment to me was, “That’s television. It’s not real. You should be doing better by now. Maybe you should talk to someone.”

I thought that was what the group was for.

Sigh.

I don’t think she understands. My Dragon is my soul mate. If I haven't said it before or made it clear, let that be the defining statement of our relationship. I do not see how, at this point in my life, where anyone can reclaim any part of me. To be honest, I am tired. I know the odds of finding a soul mate, a true partner that claims every part of you, is rare. And now that I have had him, I cannot believe I have to face the rest of my life without him. I never understood the truest definition of a soul mate until I met him and I cannot believe I was allowed to have him come into my life. I’ve never been blessed with an honor that bold or profound. My children are gifts from God. But my Dragon? I have no idea how or why I was allowed to be found by him.

And to see him struggle for breath, to watch him gasping and to work so hard to save him, CPR, calling 911 and trying to control my panic, to stop long enough to race to open the door for the EMT's and then suddenly be useless. I was not allowed near him to whisper to him. It is gut wrenching to have to pace and wait. Did he ever open his eyes with awareness of this world one last time and look for me? Did he call for me and I wasn't allowed in there to respond to him? They took him into a room and I was left alone in another.

And then he was gone.

I’ve never been blessed with any honor as profound as having him in my life. The fact that I lost him reinforces the fact that I was not meant to have an easy life. But I had him. For a little while, I had all I could ever want in him. We heard a tune, the same one, and danced to it. Only we two could hear it. We had a shorthand way of communicating. Side glances. Secret smiles. No one could hear what we heard, maybe a faint echo played as we walked by, but people were aware that we were an inseparable pair. The music was ours and belonged only to us. Now all I have are memories and dreams. And it’s not that I want it again. How can I want it again when it won’t be with him? No one can take even a small place in my heart. I once held all I could ever want and then had to watch it slip away. I want to be with him again. I miss him. The loneliness I feel cannot be fixed with someone else. It can only be erased by him.

My Dragon and I lived in Rockport, Massachusetts, by the North Atlantic. I’ve used the ocean and water as metaphors and analogies, so I will here. I’m still moving through heavy, dark waters. The skies are sullen and it's almost dusk. I’m tired and feel like, for now, at least until the wedding is over, that I’ve put my oars down and I’m letting myself drift. I know that means I’m not following any real direction. I’m being taken whichever way the wind and current takes me. I’m lost in grief but I think it's all right to allow yourself to be lost. Being lost is a lost art, in a way.

From observing this widow’s group now for a handful of months it seems that all people want to do is put grief in a box and put it away. They want to feel better. They want things to get back to normal. They want to move past it. But why? Someone incalculably important in their life died. Why zoom through the process in the carpool lane? As I said, I’m not a counselor. I am grieving deeply, horribly. But I can’t see how I will be better off if I pretend to feel better, and note the word pretend, for everyone else’s benefit.

He is my soul mate. To be without him is entirely too painful and the only way to heal would be to be with him again. And right now, that is not available to me.

The facilitator of the group asked, what have I learned and what would I say to someone else.

As of now I’ve learned that I can be in debilitating pain, cry an ocean of tears, barely be able to catch my breath, dream of a dragon of a man who was one in one hundred million, and still be called alive.

What I would say to someone else is you are what you leave behind. Everything you do and everything you say, however small, has ripples that affect the world in a lasting way. Toss a pebble in a small pond and the ripples glance off a twig, submerging it for the length of time it takes to blink, and possibly a dragonfly dies.

The Dragon was mine. For a brief time I had him and he held me. I now know what magic is like.

I wonder if it had been me that had died would he sit and remember all the times throughout each day that I said "I love you." Would he become quiet and introspective? I wonder if he would flash on one of the countless of times I sat beside him, looked at him. Would he remember that I would reach up my fingers to touch his mustache and stroke his beard and say, "You're so pretty" in a hushed, meaningful whisper that held my reverence for him? I wonder if he would become remote and unreachable in his grief over the death of his woman that he rescued from the shadows.

You are what you leave behind. He gave me so many things, like the belief in love, his undivided attention, and his medals and his stories, that secret part of his life. He gave me his hand to hold and his heart to keep safe.

I was going to die in his arms, but we were going to be so old that it would be expected, even desired. But by God, we were going to be together. Whoever went first, the other would not be long behind. But now? This situation now? What do I do now?

I lived for him, for his smiles, his love, and now I still live for him only death took him but it won't let me go. It’s not like holding onto a balloon or a child. Balloons can escape and children grow up, but the death of my husband, my Dragon, my life? How do I let go of that and if I try, it doesn't let me go. He is here and so alive in my heart, the love I feel for him, so alive with nowhere to go. I can't reach over and touch his face. I can't see him blush with my adoration that he secretly thrived on.

I’ve buried my parents, my grandparents, my stepmother, and a baby. You never really know what death will make you do or feel. How do you define it that you can set up a curriculum for bereavement classes? How to you try to reach past all the pain and fit the pieces of a solitary life together when they seem way too broken to bother? Is this the result of the half-year milestone, his birthday, and our wedding anniversary all rolled into one horrible conflagration of anguish today, yesterday, the day before, the week before, and possibly tomorrow?

Where do I go from here? I have no extended family to fuss. I have no friends to come visit. I work at home alone, and I like it. I can't face having to rise and dress and go out into the world knowing I don't have a Dragon at my back. I love being the artist. I love the freedom, but it is all that I am. I am the mother of two wonderful children whom I was blessed with. I am the maker of the quilts, the photographer, the designer, the artist, an unknown woman in the shadows who frequently puts her head in her hands and sobs. All I am is the Dragon's widow.

All I wanted to be was his wife.

We are what we leave behind. I truly believe that. Some get huge wakes and there are later on plaque dedications. For some people gather to support the family - siblings, parents, children of the deceased - all milling around, all calling and remembering the important days that have to be faced alone. My two children gifted me with the two bracelets with the Dragon’s and my wedding date engraved. They wanted to show me they remembered a love that impressed them and left them with the benchmark they want their own loves to be.

My Dragon left me with so much love to still give him. I’ll die and my passing won't be noted by anyone but my two children. I have left no mark on the world. The quilts, yes, but months, certainly years after they have them, the ones I made them for will no more remember me than they remember the nurse who gave them their first shot. My presence in a room desired, the awareness that I have posted a new piece of writing, no. The proof of my lack of continued existence will not matter to anyone but two children who are now adults. Only they cared. Only my Dragon cared. And that was always enough for me.

We lead our lives and when they end we leave behind a bit of ourselves. I’m leaving behind quilts made from the clothing of the deceased. The Dragon’s life touched so many who never even know. He is a hero. A Marine, he left behind so many medals that people are surprised - a Navy Cross, 3 Silver Stars, 2 Bronze Stars, 6 Purple Hearts and that's just the top of the list. He left behind a stepson and stepdaughter who miss him terribly. He left behind a woman who adores him and needs him, who wants to hear his voice again and feel his hands, stoke his beard and call him “pretty.” He’s left me behind.

Sometimes we leave an empty space. If after I have gone, anyone notes my absence, know that I have gone in search of my Dragon. If anyone who has died can truly wait for someone to catch up, it is he.