Independence Day

America celebrates her 239^th birthday, the signing of the document that would declare our independence. Fireworks mix with thunder. The sky is illuminated by pinwheels of light and flashes of lightning. I should be celebrating as all American citizens appear to be doing within a 10 mile radius. Instead, I find myself on my hands and knees on my shower floor, my tears intermingled with streams of warm water. Memories of that day haunt my thoughts. I see Woody sliding down the mountain. I remember thinking—crying out to God, really—“No! This cannot be happening! Please, Lord, make it stop! Turn back time! Let’s start over!” Why? Why did it have to end this way? I just knew Woody would live. I just knew God would perform a miracle and he would survive. I promised our children he would not die. I took Hunter’s face in my hands, looked him in the eyes, and promised. I broke my promise. I had never done so before that day. But I just knew God would hear my prayers and do what only He could do. We would recall the glory of God and how he had saved my husband from certain death. We would acclaim the power of prayer when uttered by the faithful. I was confident that Woody would live through this horrible tragedy. Of all the scenarios that played through my head during the hours the EMTs worked to stabilize him, death was never one of them.

But God said, “No.” It was the most heartrending no I have ever received. My chest aches with inconceivable pain. I cannot escape the memories. The look in Woody’s eyes as he slid down that granite slab and over the edge will be with me for the rest of my life. I want to hold him in my arms and feel his warmth radiating through his shirt. I saved one of Woody’s shirts from the dirty laundry. His scent was overwhelming that first night. I held it close to my face, feeling his presence through his scent. Tonight after leaving the shower, I went to my closet where it hangs and held it to my face trying so hard to smell even a trace of the smell I remember as Woody’s. It is almost gone. What will I do when his scent is no longer there? Will I forget? I’m afraid I will. The thought terrifies me. How can I forget the aroma of the man who lay next to me for over 20 years?

I want to celebrate. God has given me much to be thankful for, but the loss of the man whom I loved most in the world is overshadowing any celebratory feelings I might have. Someday, I will smile when fireworks explode over my head with bursts of yellow and red. But today they remind me of the man I prayed for and lost. Happy birthday, America. Maybe next year the sobs will not eclipse the explosives.