The Pictures Stop

For weeks now I've been working on the slideshow for G's memorial service. Taking thousands and thousands of pictures and sorting through them. Narrowing to a thousand, 500, 400... over and over again I go through them, rotating some, removing others, trying to reduce my husband's life into a manageable story told in 15 minutes of pictures and song.

Part of me has loved this process. Looking at the pictures makes him feel real. Reminds me of special moments. Retells our story over and over again - parts I've remembered and parts I've forgotten.

But it hits me in the chest every time I get to the end because the pictures stop. He is alive and we are making memories and taking pictures until the day he isn't anymore. He's playing with P and then it's over. His life is over. Our story is over. There are no more moments to be had, music to listen to, family strolls to take, boardgames to play, snuggles to give, inside jokes to tell, looks that convey more than a conversation possibly could. It's just over. He's gone. And now all we have is memories. Pictures and videos and clothes and books and deodorant and shoes and jackets and memories. Memories fade. Pictures get lost or destroyed. Clothes can't hold the person who made them special. Loss and loss and loss.

And every time I get to the last picture there's that sickness in my guts, that heaviness in my heart, the disbelief in my mind. How was he here and now he's gone? How could I reach out and touch him or call him or yell up the stairs to him or hear his laughter through the open windows and now he's gone? GONE! Should I sob or scream or hit something or throw up? Should I quit? Should I continue? How can my heart break and keep going at the same time?

Its like I want the world to see with this slideshow how much I lost when I lost G. Yet his life can't possibly be reduced to 300 pictures. The fact that his life can be reduced to pictures at all is terrible. He is gone. My heart still can't comprehend it.