My Grief

Our “Lunaversary”. This is a word that Julie and I made up. With anniversary meaning yearly, we decided that Luna, pertaining to the cycle of the moon (near enough to monthly) should be used in the same context, thus, “Lunaversary”. In other words, on the fifteenth of each month, we would embrace and kiss and look at each other in a romantic way, and say to each other, “Happy Lunaversary.” Childish, I know, but one of the many childish things I enjoyed with Julie that will not return. Even if another relationship is possible, it is unlikely that anyone else will appreciate childish things the way Julie and I did.

Some married couples I know always keep their wedding rings on. For some, there is even superstition that if the ring ever came off their finger it would be a bad omen for the marriage. I felt no such compulsion. My ring was a public announcement that I was unavailable - that I was wedded to Julie. There was no need to wear it at home in private, especially during sleep. And I was always more comfortable without it.

I have now realised that many times a day, subconsciously, I must have been checking whether my ring was on. For even now, I regularly find my left thumb reaching down to the spot on the fourth finger where the wedding ring once sat.

I find that I can look at photos of Julie without getting too emotional, but it is more difficult with older photos of her, from fifteen or so years ago. But video is another matter. Hearing her voice engages my emotions in a way that is more intense than just seeing her. Seeing an old video of Julie, say from fifteen years ago, makes me very emotional indeed. If I hear her voice, then it is worse. Her laughter, which once was music to brighten my soul, is now a source of much anguish.

On Sunday, we were watching an old video of Richard’s from 1989. Julie was not the feature - the video was of Stacy's birthday - but part of that video showed a photo being taken of Julie and me. It included her voice, and it showed her putting her arm around me, snuggling close. In my peripheral vision I could see Mum glancing at me to see if I was all right. I wasn't all right, but I didn't show it at the time.

What am I to do with the myriad hours of video that I have, if watching them brings anguish instead of pleasure?