I have lived my life with my heart on my sleeve and my emotions close to the surface.

When my bride was at my side I would often rant to friends and total strangers

That I was the luckiest man alive

And in many ways, I was and in many ways I still may be.

The point of this epistle is,

that I have been brought down to my knees

fist raised and screaming at the stars.

I have wailed and soaked my clothes in tears,

and begged the universe to undo what it has done,

for time to spin backwards just a touch,

and for me to see and hear her once again,

to hold her in my arms and hear her call my name.

This is a widower’s lot and I have lived inside its walls.

But those who loved her as much as I and those who love me still,

have knelt down next to me and covered me in the blanket of their love,

and held me close and let me rant and rage and wail and weep.

They have given me kindness and comfort.  

They have fed me and taken me for long walks along the shore.

They have taught me to breathe again and move from one shape to another.

They have coaxed me; into rising early, to moving, to stretching and to lifting and lowering,

They have praised my scrawls on the walls of the web, the images I have fashioned through my lens.

They have celebrated each step I have taken as if I were a newborn child,

and I am humbled by their love, and oh so grateful that they are in my life.

So, I rise from bended knee and bow with hands at heart,

and thank you for your gifts and for your presence in my life.