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I’m sitting at my kitchen bistro table looking across at a mostly-empty chair. It’s got some clean laundry draped across the back because of course it does. I’m listening to men with guitars sing to me as I try to hydrate for another scorcher of a day. I’m reminiscing as Sunday morning brings back memories of Sundays past. Bryan and I could absolutely make the most of a weekend and I miss that sense of adventure with him. Want to go to Mr. Ed’s for breakfast? Yes. Want to go for a walk? Yes. Hey, there’s an open house a couple of streets over at 1pm, wanna go? Yep. Maybe our friends would like to meet out at Quirk, let’s text ’em. Okay, that sounds fun. Call Mary, see if she’d like to come over this week for quesadillas. Shifting, adapting, open to possibilities and serendipity wherever it might come. And doing that together. What absolute bliss.

Now, I do some of those things still. Sometimes I reach out to friends, family, loved ones to see if they’d like to join in, but they have lives and families and schedules I’m not privy to. My heart aches for the companionship I shared with my person. The ease with which we walked this earth was remarkable and so sweet.

Today, I’ll probably go for another walk before it gets stupid hot. I’ll water the garden and paint and listen to more music. Maybe this evening I’ll go get a scoop of salted licorice ice cream from the Pine Cone Creamery and listen to live music downtown. Maybe I’ll do laundry and grocery shopping. Maybe I’ll curl up on the couch and cry a little. The possibilities are endless and all of them without him.

Yesterday evening, one of my neighbors, Cheryl, was walking down the alleyway behind my house while I was sitting on the back patio listening to music and enjoying a cold beer. She hadn’t seen my red brick patio yet so she came back to take a look. While she was there, Pierre, my shaman-guru-minister-to-my-soul neighbor, and a buddy of his staying with him and Sue for a while joined in. We chatted about Lincoln Creek and the work the skilled laborers had done. Cheryl continued on her walk and Pierre and Todd stayed to enjoy the Coors they brought with them (and one for me).

We visited about house projects and trees and angels walking among us. We talked about how much of life is really good even in the midst of loss. We spoke of gratitude and what it means to have your heart turned off and the work needed to turn it back on.

Bryan knew the importance of gathering places, especially in the interstitial spaces between the public and private. Those buffering zones allow us to share a little more intimately with our community–deeper conversations than a tip of the hat and “how do?” on the sidewalk.

I have made sometimes glib comments about “church of the porch” or “church of the patio,” but I think spaces where people can be open and vulnerable with each other even in small measure helps us to be more connected. Those connections are bonds forged, fabric woven.

In the immediate aftermath of Bryan’s passing, I wrote and spoke of feeling adrift–a boat untethered in stormy seas. My friends and family have thrown buoys and lifelines of encouragement, reminders of the truth of myself. In more recent days, I’m rediscovering and redefining Becci.

Sure, my heart aches. I want Bryan to see the patio and the stream repair. I want him to see all the changes I’ve made in this home, in my art, in my work, in my pursued interests. I showed Mary the patio first upon its completion. No one had worked harder moving those bricks from place to place as a kid. She got the privilege of the first viewing. While standing there admiring the skilled laborers’ work, I said I hoped Bryan would have liked it and been proud. Mary, in her wisdom, gently, firmly said, “But Becci, do you like it?” Yes. Yes I do.

I am finding my confidence again, my voice again. A man who came into the office today called me sweetheart. I told him to please not do that as only one person on this planet had the right to do so and he was dead. In my more vulnerable, squishy moments, I might have let it pass. But no, this is a boundary for me. And I told him so. I also thanked him for his apology later.

Just as I paint a canvas with deliberate brush strokes and a wild array of colors, I am constantly creating a life and way of being I choose in the same way–vivid, passionate, full of energy and emotion, and color…so much color.

I’m no Amazonian princess. I still have weepy, vulnerable days. I had one recently at work. My boss recommended a song by an artist I admire and enjoy quite a bit as a pick-me-up. I share it with you now in case you have felt untethered, unsure, and need a little reminder of who you are, too.

I know a guy who used to drive a bunch of us kids to summer camp, inventing riddles and puzzles to pass the time, buying us breakfast that consisted of Belgian waffles with the works.

I know a guy who would take us tubing in the snow in the mountains or for REALLY long hikes or to put up a bluebird house just for us.

I know a guy who would put teenagers and unemployed 20-somethings to work doing odd jobs around his house.

I know a guy who has a yearly tradition of sending cookie care-packages to kids who are away from church.

I know a guy who could organize a field hospital in a blizzard with one arm tied behind his back and make everyone involved feel like they were part of something really important.

I know a guy with a big heart and more energy than ten average people.

I know a guy who walks his talk and his faith.

I know a guy who loves unreservedly, unabashedly, and with honor.

I know a guy who did everything he could and he still had to let go.

I know a guy who will carry that love forward.