Okay so I guess to be clear, no I am not under the influence of anything. Nor was I watching these movies expecting to get hit like a truck by emotions and end up having these thoughts sift through the shattered glass of the collision. But each line of fracture was just the metaphysical manifestation of another minute I had spent missing you, and especially after watching the Intern I realized more than ever that it is not marriage in and of itself that scares me. Not the commitment, and the expectations, and the matching outfits for family outings. The monster whose claw shown green and scaly from below the bed was in fact what happens after marriage. More than I even fear most anything, I fear what I will do if I must carry on after my spouse's passing.
It strikes me as funny more now than ever, because for as long as I can remember or was even capable of such abstract thought, I've always found myself to be enduring and like the God I worship, want to shoulder all the burdens and pain in this life that I can manage so that others don't have to. And I'm not just saying that, I truly mean it. I do this to a fault. On the rugby field I never took breathers, on the playground I took the wrap for other's misconduct, and with friends no burden was ill-timed or ill-placed if it came across my desk.
In the movie The Intern, at one point De Niro has a tearful, frog-in-throat moment when he lays there and realizes that in many ways, he is very much alone as a widower and senior citizen. And upon watching this, initially in the digestion process my brain wanted to say "man that sucks, but like always, I'd find a way. Better me than her (the one I love and marry)". But soon after I lapsed on my philosophy and found an ache in my chest that I'd never prior known. It was a very confusing thing. While on one end I still would never wish that upon my wife one day (not to mention I probably won't die until I'm 100 because my relatives just never die), I also felt the immense, dark, pit-digging fear of when those years come.
What do people do when this happens?
Does it ever get easier?
Will it hurt more or less than I think?
Why does it feel so close and so far away at the same time?
Undoubtedly I will miss you beyond any measure and more than any analogy or metaphor could encapsulate and at the end of the day poeticism won't make the pain any less. So dear future wife, whoever or wherever you are, whether I've met you or not, please do me this small yet massive favor and start writing. And I mean just write somehow knowing I'm doing the same. Let us write when we're tired, and when we're feeling alone, and when warm by a fire, and when the nights giddiness keeps us awake. Write when we have nothing else. Tell me about the one time spaghetti came out your nose when you laughed at your new pug puppy. Or how excited you were when you got your braces off in high school and trust that I will hang on to every single little word.
Because if my hand turns out weaker than yours and I must burn the midnight oil in your absence (I've always been bad at table-top games of any kind), I will need any and every little trace of you to keep the longing down to a dull roar. Everything from the stories you will tell to the way you swivel your two's and "s"'s will be the few things that keep me sane and connected to you while the world keeps spinning.
But in the off chance that I for once in my life win something (or I guess lose depending on how you look at it) ... I'm sorry for how much of my life I've yet to cover and will without doubt leave out, but I will work double-time to make up for it (I promise you my life wasn't all too exciting before you anyway). But hey uh... I'd have to say that here, dear human, is the place to start for me. I'd say you could look into my musings and letters of earlier years tucked into old spirals and blank books, but none of them were quite coherent. Just whole bucket loads of angst and bitterness that somewhere in the gaps stair-step into who I am now. I once even wrote a very, very, horrid song. If you manage to find that dastardly thing, I pray that I am indeed dead and that you haven't jumped the gun on this whole autobiographical journey of sorts. If not, death will shortly follow. It's the only way I can see this going.
Until then, may death be the only little thing that ever comes between us and let my lovingness as a spouse make me a very well-missed man.
It strikes me as funny more now than ever, because for as long as I can remember or was even capable of such abstract thought, I've always found myself to be enduring and like the God I worship, want to shoulder all the burdens and pain in this life that I can manage so that others don't have to. And I'm not just saying that, I truly mean it. I do this to a fault. On the rugby field I never took breathers, on the playground I took the wrap for other's misconduct, and with friends no burden was ill-timed or ill-placed if it came across my desk.
In the movie The Intern, at one point De Niro has a tearful, frog-in-throat moment when he lays there and realizes that in many ways, he is very much alone as a widower and senior citizen. And upon watching this, initially in the digestion process my brain wanted to say "man that sucks, but like always, I'd find a way. Better me than her (the one I love and marry)". But soon after I lapsed on my philosophy and found an ache in my chest that I'd never prior known. It was a very confusing thing. While on one end I still would never wish that upon my wife one day (not to mention I probably won't die until I'm 100 because my relatives just never die), I also felt the immense, dark, pit-digging fear of when those years come.
What do people do when this happens?
Does it ever get easier?
Will it hurt more or less than I think?
Why does it feel so close and so far away at the same time?
Undoubtedly I will miss you beyond any measure and more than any analogy or metaphor could encapsulate and at the end of the day poeticism won't make the pain any less. So dear future wife, whoever or wherever you are, whether I've met you or not, please do me this small yet massive favor and start writing. And I mean just write somehow knowing I'm doing the same. Let us write when we're tired, and when we're feeling alone, and when warm by a fire, and when the nights giddiness keeps us awake. Write when we have nothing else. Tell me about the one time spaghetti came out your nose when you laughed at your new pug puppy. Or how excited you were when you got your braces off in high school and trust that I will hang on to every single little word.
Because if my hand turns out weaker than yours and I must burn the midnight oil in your absence (I've always been bad at table-top games of any kind), I will need any and every little trace of you to keep the longing down to a dull roar. Everything from the stories you will tell to the way you swivel your two's and "s"'s will be the few things that keep me sane and connected to you while the world keeps spinning.
But in the off chance that I for once in my life win something (or I guess lose depending on how you look at it) ... I'm sorry for how much of my life I've yet to cover and will without doubt leave out, but I will work double-time to make up for it (I promise you my life wasn't all too exciting before you anyway). But hey uh... I'd have to say that here, dear human, is the place to start for me. I'd say you could look into my musings and letters of earlier years tucked into old spirals and blank books, but none of them were quite coherent. Just whole bucket loads of angst and bitterness that somewhere in the gaps stair-step into who I am now. I once even wrote a very, very, horrid song. If you manage to find that dastardly thing, I pray that I am indeed dead and that you haven't jumped the gun on this whole autobiographical journey of sorts. If not, death will shortly follow. It's the only way I can see this going.
Until then, may death be the only little thing that ever comes between us and let my lovingness as a spouse make me a very well-missed man.
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