His failure to manage his life didn’t keep him from protecting mine. As years passed and he lived more in than out of the drugged fog, he always climbed from the hole when I needed him. I saw him at funerals, heard from him when I was sick. He carried furniture when I moved, never missed a birthday, Mother’s Day, or divorce, and showed up to catch tears when I hurt.
He died before my body gave in to disability, but left his love behind to carry me. Often, as I lay struggling to adjust to my new life, memories his smile brightened my days. Remembering his free-spirited outlook sparked hope that I would either recover my spirit or learn to lose with honor the way he had.
Accustomed to pain and resolved to fate, I went to bed one night without giving my new symptoms a second thought. Hours later, patience exhausted and fear moving in, I considered giving up. How much willpower kept me alive, and would it all be over if I just let it go?
I recognized the feather light touch immediately, and the spirit that crawled into bed beside me. The touch became a caress, followed by a full hug with an invisible shoulder to carry my weight. Somehow, I knew it would be the last time he visited. Maybe he gave everything he had left to me that night.
Maybe he knew one was enough this time.
(Maggie May was one of our songs and it seems to fit here.)