It

I am babysitting little "T" tonight. She and Iain are quite close and I am happy to be able to facilitate their together time. T's Daddy was there with us the night Dalton died. He read the 23rd Psalm while Dalton's heart beat it's last beat. As I laid there on the floor of Iain's room this evening listening to Iain and T, I was overcome by the magnitude of the evening of Dalton's death. I can't imagine that there will ever be a time in my life that isn't affected by it. It still catches me off guard. It suprises me. It socks me in the stomach. Frankly, it astounds me. It is like a dream from another life, and surely Dalton is still here with me.

There is something permanent about this experience. My friend was right; it changes your DNA. The death of a spouse is unlike anything else. It is an encounter with the deepest parts of humanity, the closest we get to running head first into eternity on earth. It is the most exceedingly painful and exceedingly human thing we endure. Truly, it isn't that it is that unique amongst people. Nearly half of us will face it, some more than once. But it is so incredibly unique when juxtaposed against normal day to day life. There are no other instances in my life that I have relived as much as I have Dalton's death. Not my wedding. Not my son's birth. I cannot imagine a time when even the slightest detail will begin to fade. For some obscure reason that comforts me, and I hope I am right.

I've been out on a few dates now and am realizing the challenges inherent in this process. Even the good dates are difficult. As much as I want to be in love again, it's really not that easy. Either I'm not ready or the right person hasn't come along. I'm sure there are people out there for whom falling in love is as straightforward as finding a new job. I'm not one of them. Thus far, Dalton was it. Maybe he'll always be it.

Don't misunderstand. It's not that I'm necessarily depressed about this idea. Just a little sober. And maybe a little curious about what to do next.