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15 November, 2000
I once knew a man who had magickal eyes.
They changed color with his mood. Sometimes they were as green as fine jade. Other times they were a pale amber. And sometimes they turned a dark color I can't quite name, but it's the color of rain clouds just about to burst, when the sun is near the horizon and lighting them from below.
I once knew a man who had a little boy's eyes.
They lit up when he laughed. Sometimes they were bright with the joy of singing. Other times they filled with wonder at the beauty of a flower. And sometimes they followed the antics of Tigger and Pooh across the pages of a book or the screen of a theatre with all the delight of a child seeing something for the very first time.
I once knew a man who had loving eyes.
They smoldered when he looked at me. Sometimes they danced when I said his name. Other times they filled me with warmth. And sometimes they showed me a vision of myself I couldn't quite believe; they showed me how he saw me, how his love airbrushed out my imperfections and framed me in flattering lighting.
I once knew a man who had sorrowful eyes.
They cried at movies. Sometimes they carried the weight of all the world's worries. Other times they were fragile and scared. And many times they revealed the self-doubt that ate away at his hopes and dreams; they filled with dispair that I could only hold at bay for a little while with a hug or a kiss or a smile.
I once knew a man who had pleading eyes.
They begged me to end the pain. Sometimes they looked at me. Other times they seemed focused somewhere far away. And finally they were empty, like pale green crystals that had once contained fire but now stared past the breathing apparatus, ignoring the beeping machines, the doctors, the nurses, and everyone who stood crying around his bed.
I once knew a man who had haunting eyes.
They still burn into my soul. Sometimes I see them smiling in my dreams. Other times I feel them in my own tears. And sometimes they reach across the gulf between this world and the next, trying to tell me something, trying to show me something. But all I feel is the pain of his abscence. Then I cling to the memory of his laughter, the sound of his voice when he said, "I love you," and the warmth of his embrace.
--Gene Breshears
Some coincidences are disturbing. I started writing this entry on the weekend of October 28. I didn't know that the author of a journal I occasionally read was about the committ suicide, and that her husband would post this memorial to her while I was still working on this. I enjoyed her website and found her artistic sense inspiring, but it was painful for me to read her entries. I'm sad that her life is over. I hope she's in a more peaceful place. I don't know why the way I felt like describing my memories of Ray came out so similar to the memorial to Eve.
This is the third anniversary of Ray's death. Some of the cliches people say about grieving are true. It hasn't gotten any less painful. It hasn't gone away. But it's easier to handle each day. I still get the warm, fuzzy feeling deep inside me when I look at a picture of him smiling at me. Sometimes I cry a little as I smile back.
As I said, I began writing this entry late in October. I had been remembering Ray even more than usual all month. I blame the holidays. I can't get out the spooky lights or the pumpkin- and ghost-shaped candle holders without remembering how much he loved to decorate. I can't discuss holiday menus with Michael without thinking about the holiday meals Ray and I made together. Maybe it's because the last conversation we had was about our next Thanksgiving meal. More likely it's just because Ray loved to decorate even more than I do, and holidays have always brought out the sentimentalist in me.
I seriously doubt I would still be here if it weren't for the love and support of Michael, Kristin, Julie, Keith, and David. I can't imagine anything I've done to deserve such wonderful people in my life, but I'm awfully glad they've been here for me.
I wouldn't be the person I am now without Ray.
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This page is copyright 2000 by Gene Breshears. Photograph is copyright 1998 by Julie Rampke. All Rights Reserved.
