I won the church Easter raffle on a Saturday. First prize: a sunset dinner cruise for two on the delta. I paid my dollar, picked a scarf from the basket.
John had been gone for exactly twelve days. The cruise was for the following Friday.
The upstairs neighbor, Myra, knocked on my door that evening. She held a birthday cake for her 80th, a single candle shaped like an 8. She said, "You're not going alone, are you?"
She didn't know John had died. I hadn't told anyone yet.
I gave her the cruise ticket. I said, "Take your daughter." She stared at me. Then she put the cake down and hugged me. That was the first time I cried.
The cake sat on my counter for three days before I lit the candle. It smelled like vanilla and loss. I let the wax pool and didn't blow it out. I just let it burn.
Now I understand: you don't let go all at once. You let go one ticket, one candle, one hug at a time.