In a few days it will be exactly nine months that I lost my husband. On the 16th to be exact. Last night when I checked my calendar for any appointments that I have this week, I realized that the 16th fell on a Friday.
See I have this thing for Fridays now. I don’t know how to handle them. After nine months of grief and anger I thought my feelings will be different now and I will be less angry. But no. Somehow I have to some extent come to terms with my loss, especially when I recall our trips to the doctors, the hospitals and the clinics. But I am still angry.
I am angry that I have to keep living in a world where I can’t find him. I can’t call him. I can’t see him. I walk around among strangers looking at their faces, thinking and wishing that he will appear from some corner somewhere. I drive around hoping to see him. And when I can’t find him, the person I love and needed, the one person that mattered to me the most, anywhere, I get angry.
I am also angry and hurt because I am left behind and we should have had more time together. And when I hear his voice telling me that “now was the time to enjoy our kids together” I break down.
He worked so hard for us, for his family, only to be taken away from us. Where is the justice in this, I ask? But then again I am looking for something that does not exist in this world. I have lived my childhood and youth in civil war. And I have always questioned the reasons why people kill each other. What reason, whether political or religious or socio-economical, can be more important for people to take their lives or the lives of other human beings?
One day, when we were newly engaged, and were on our way to look at a flat we wanted to rent, we were stopped by some gunmen. My late husband, then my fiancé, was taken from the car and I was told to forget about him and that they would kill him if the other party didn’t respond to their demands. We didn’t belong to any party. We were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. After keeping him captured and torturing him for hours they let him go.
We were innocent civilians doing our best to live a normal life whatever that normal was. It’s been decades since that incident and I still wonder how many people like us got lucky that day.
Where is the justice when the good, the just, the loving, the healthy, the young and even the needed and most wanted die on us or are killed? Maybe I should be grateful that our life together didn’t end that day, in the spring of 1983. Maybe I should feel lucky we were given a second chance.
Scott Turow wrote:
“The joke was thinking you were ever really in charge of your life. You pressed your oar down into the water to direct the canoe, but it was the current that shot you through the rapids. You just hung on and hoped not to hit a rock or a whirlpool.”