Tuesday was the 2nd year anniversary of my partner’s death. He died just after Thanksgiving when we were on vacation. It felt sad and strangely it felt worse than the first year. I was confused why. I had great plans for celebrating and not mourning but somehow they were not working out.
I was in my office trying not to work but not sure what to do and feeling no joy in going out or staying in, eating dinner or going to the gym, or even being quiet or singing along to something silly. I saw a book on my shelves, “Under the Tuscan Sun”. This is the story, written a few years ago, of a woman who buys a house in Italy, does it up and finds herself with liberal servings of olive oil, peasant neighbors, and arguments over construction woes.
I picked it up and began to read. For the first time that day, I began to relax. I enjoyed living the wonderful countryside and the dreams she made real. A group of us and my partner and I had rented a house very close to the town that Frances May, the author, lived in, and it was like meeting an old friend again. I thought of the good times during that vacation and was thankful for those memories. I felt at peace and carried on reading.
I was down a few chapters when I realized there was a postcard tucked into the back of the book. The card was of the Stars and Stripes wishing me a Happy Thanksgiving from my sister and her husband in England. It was dated 11/25. What a strange coincidence that I should open this book and find this card. A card with the same date as the anniversary wishing me Happy Thanksgiving. It was a message. A reminder that we are never alone. A note to tell me that nothing is ever finished even when it looks like it.
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