Blink.

I dream of him. With the water on his skin and the sunset in his eyes. The timing was all wrong. And yet, the timing was perfect. I wonder where he is, and what he is doing. Then I remember. He is here, at my side, where he promised he’d always be. I can’t bear for him to touch me anymore. My skin is so thin it hurts. My bones so brittle they could break. I miss him with a longing that never ends.

Blink.

I tiptoe among the stars, along the Milky Way. Hitch a ride on a comet, dance with the man in the moon.

I am star dust; blow on me too hard and I will disintegrate.

Blink.

Epilogue

(Written by James—printed in the Women’s Weekly)

When I was asked to write a few words, not long after Ava’s death, I initially said no. The pain was too raw, my grief unrelenting. It still is, and shows no sign of waning. But then I remembered how much comfort Ava drew during her final months from you, the readers of this magazine. She cherished each and every letter, and was grateful to be included in your thoughts and prayers. So I do this for you, and for her.

After our wedding, Ava and I, we thought we still had time up our sleeve. That turned out to be wishful thinking. The cancer was too aggressive, and had spread too far. She became seriously ill very quickly and was admitted to hospital. When it was clear that there was no longer anything that could be done for her, we brought her home, at her request.

One night she asked for a sip of water, and in the brief moment that I turned around to pick up the glass and straw, she slipped into an unconsciousness from which she would never awaken. Her family, closest friends, and I spent the next eight hours at her bedside, reminding her of how much she is, and always will be, deeply loved. We told her it was OK for her to let go, to seek an end to her pain and suffering, and that it wasn’t goodbye, because we would see her again some day.

Ava died just after 5 a.m. on a Saturday in March. As the sun rose over the sea she took her last breath. The end, when it came, was peaceful. For that I will always be grateful.

We buried her in a pine casket in the cemetery that occupies a sharp corner on the road leading out of town. She rests on the tip of a hill, overlooking the ocean, where she is buffeted by wind and salt spray, which I can’t help thinking she would have liked. Ava drew comfort from feeling alive, and nature is a good provider of that. I visit it often, although to my dismay I don’t sense her presence there. She is gone, dancing among the stars somewhere, pain free and forever young. Her grave is merely a place to rest flowers and my weary head, and I have fallen asleep there more times than I care to admit.