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Our beloved and much missed blogging dinosaur, Rara, sent me the following words to share with the Stories That Must Not Die community.  I had planned on just posting them here for you all to consume as is, but considering I cried while typing them up, I figured I should probably warn you, before you read, her words are powerfully sad and explode with her pain and grief.  So, read them, definitely read them, but do so cautiously, and then write her another letter to tell her it isn’t her fault, and she is so much more than how she is feeling now.

Today my husband died.

Maybe it was 26 days ago, but the shock of his absence has permanently stained my present moment.  Every Today will always be the day he died.  I wake up, suffer the sunrise, and lose him all over again.

I am not strong enough to survive this forever.  I ache with missing him – his strength, his peace, his talent.

In all our years together – our decade – I never once envied his talent.  It coursed through his veins and bled from his fingertips into the pages of our daylight.  It forced him awake through the aching hours of our night.  Everything was his canvas and he painted with words – stroking Light and mixing color into the stretched fabric of our intertwined years.  Words filled him and emptied him, scarred him and caressed him, and marred his perfection.  But he loved them as he loved me.

Unconditionally.  Eternally.  Constantly.

No, I never wished for even a teaspoon of his talent.  Until today, when he died.

I need the right words now.  I need to mix and blend them into a sentence that will balm my soul, and help me forgive myself.  He died alone because I failed him.  There is a story that will describe all facets of who he was.  I just need to find it.  Somewhere, in the brushstrokes of me, there is a way to explain why I didn’t use my own words at his funeral, and why I still can’t say goodbye, and why my once-friendly universe has started to suffocate my slowly.

I am heavy with Memories, bursting with the desire to share all my moments of him, so I can preserve them.  But I don’t have the talent, the air, or the words.

I have only a snuffed, stained canvas.

In my heart, I still hear my husband – telling me to paint our life with confidence – bit it is only my life now and there’s nothing worth noting anymore.

Yesterday I Lived a masterpiece of color and light, and I was ever-so-loved by my artist.

But he died today,

And now I am blank.

If you can, please spread the word and donate to the GoFundMe account that has been set-up to help Rara get back on her feet when she is released from prison: http://www.gofundme.com/rararelief

(Thank you Madame Weebles for setting that up.)