Today I feel tossed between endless things to organize and the quiet ache of missing you.
I was never good at delegating — and you knew that. You used to laugh and say, “Nobody is as intelligent as we are,” knowing perfectly well that it wasn’t true — and that was the joke.
I miss your gentle way of being.
Your love often came through patience — letting me do my “absolutely urgent” things and waiting for me to return. Those things never were that urgent, I see now. I should have spent more time simply being beside you.
I still wish I had heard your voice that last morning.
There are words I’ll never hear — perhaps that’s part of the mystery of love, that it always feels unfinished, a sentence left open in the heart.
You once told me to open your letter when the time came, but I never found it.
Maybe the letter is this silence itself — the one that keeps teaching me to listen differently.
I think of that night in early September, when your head rested against my shoulder and we drifted into sleep.
Your hair had just begun to grow back.
I felt honored to offer you even a little warmth, a small sense of Geborgenheit.
And I think of Greenwich — the Tulip Staircase — where I asked you to marry me.
That photo must still exist somewhere: you smiling, surprised, luminous.
The staircase spirals upward like time itself, carrying all our promises.
Half a year later, in a small ceremony in Samtens near Stralsund, we sealed that promise — quietly, joyfully, just as we had lived.
Those years together were the most formative and beautiful of my life.
You showed me where true north lies — not as a direction, but as a way of being.
Even now, when everything feels scattered, I can still sense that compass you left within me.
You are no longer beside me, Ada,
but you live in every quiet breath,
in the space between thoughts,
in the small acts of care that now carry your imprint.
Thank you for your love.
I carry you in my heart — always.
0 comments