The blue shirt

The blue shirt

The other day my daughter and I remembered a blue shirt that Patrick used to wear. It was a striped affair, one I had bought him for Father’s Day or perhaps his birthday. It was so very beautiful on him, so beautiful that I placed it in my mom’s cedar chest, a special place for beloved baby clothes, “blankies”, and wedding dresses. Things of that nature.

Patrick would have been 61 this August and after 3 years, on a day so special, the memories are still very strong.

Today, Bea and I traveled to PEI, her suggestion, as she thought it would make the day go easier. And it did, even though I had a splitting headache this morning and was nauseous three quarters of the way there. It’s rather funny how grief operates, even two and a half years in. The draw to familiar places and routines is so very strong and to ignore or belittle its power can be detrimental.

So, we drove along over the bridge with its overcast skies, presented our appropriate papers and identification, and found ourselves at the traditional stopping place after arriving in PEI, the Tim Horton’s driveway at Borden-Carlton.

Totally deja-vu.

You might ask why we put ourselves through this.

I might not be able to tell you except that we just have to in order to make it all right. I know from experience that this will not always be the way. It just has to happen now.

Just like I have to make my profile picture one of Pat,in that blue shirt, around midnight on August 29th.

The month of August is the pits for us. But it is also one of beauty. Someday it will just be beautifully normal. That is so totally how grief rolls .

One of Pat’s favorite singers was Joni Mitchell. So tonight as I remember him on his 61st birthday, drinking one too many rums, I listened to “Blue” thoroughly , for the first time.

And I remembered my beautiful, handsome, kind, funny, and understanding husband in his beautiful blue shirt.

Thank you so much for your patience, Pat.

I will always love you.

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