Collision course

I'm on a path. It leads me through a wide plain, nothing worth notice as far as I can see to the right or left. The walk is nice - sunny, warm but not hot. I feel pretty good. But I know it's not going to last.

Ahead of me is a wall. I can't see it yet, but I know it's there. When I reach it, I'll have to crash through it, and on the other side the sun will be gone. The nice temperature will be gone. I'll be in a storm. I don't know how bad that storm will be, or how long it will last, but I'll be in it, and I have to ride it out.

I can't turn around and go back. I can't turn to one side or another. And I can't stop where I am, for the path I'm on is Time, and Time is ultimately immovable, unstoppable. As nice as this walk is right now, I know where it's leading, and I wish I didn't have to go.

But I do.

Now the wall is within sight. In fact, I can see that I'll be there in about two day's time.

Two days.


That illustration is exactly how I feel right now. Despite continuing to battle my grief, the summer was actually not terrible. I'm a happier person when the sun is out, and between a great second half of the summer and fantastic early fall (weather-wise), I've been in as good a mood as I could have hoped. Additionally, other aspects of my personal and professional life have been going well, which has added to the "sunny" feeling of the last several months.

But October 25 is two days away. The upcoming hike up Mt. Pilchuck to scatter Aimee's ashes and say my goodbye is looming like a storm, and God only knows what emotions that is going to unleash in me. During a conversation with my therapist, she mentioned that this goodbye is incredibly important, as it's the one I have control over. I didn't have control over my parting from Aimee, no foreknowledge of it, so I wasn't able to really say goodbye to her.

But I do have control over it this time, and I've been holding onto my goodbye for the last ten months.

I've spent the last ten months facing what happened as pragmatically as possible. Aimee died, I can't reverse that or bring her back. Process grief, process letting go, process moving on. Live life, keep going, keep moving, keep living, move on.

Move on.

Move on, dammit.

Well, in order to keep moving on, I have to do this. I have to say goodbye and literally let go of Aimee, flinging those ashes out into the sky on top of that mountain and let them fall where they may. Separate, away from me, ultimately free as she has been now for ten months.

I've been looking ahead to this day with some level of dread since last December, when I first decided this was what I wanted to do with Aimee's ashes.

It's here in two days.