He's gone

James found him dead in his bed last Friday.
He’d been dead for at least 4 days.
I’d been away on retreat for less than a week, but the separation was too much for him.
He slipped deeper and deeper with each passing day, unable to contact his love and his lifeline.
My soul mate, the love of my life, Wandering Angus has gone.

Our union was extraordinary.
We loved each other intensely, passionately, unconditionally, eternally.
Separation was unbearable, we spent every night together, embraced in each other’s love.
But now the separation is final, severed.
He’s not coming back.
The tragedy of losing him is overwhelming.
Grief stricken, I have not eaten and hardly slept for three days.
His clothes, his shoes, his bags are strewn over my floor, he is everywhere around me but I’ll never see him or hold him or laugh with him again.
Why did this cruel accident happen?
We were reunited in this lifetime to experience a profound love beyond time, but for such a brief moment…WHY? WHY?

He will live on in my every breath, and every thought.
And I will hold the memory of our time together tightly inside my broken heart.

I love you forever Wandering Angus. And I vow to find you again in the next lifetime.


“It’s amazing Molly, the love inside…you take it with you”
(final scene, final line, from Ghost)


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Wandering Angus

I went out to the hazelwood
Because a fire was in my head
I cut and peeled a hazel wand
And hooked a berry to a thread

And when white moths were on the wing
And moth-like stars were flickering out
I dropped a berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout

When I had laid it on the floor
And went to blow the fire aflame
And something rustled on the floor
And something called me by my name
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossoms in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And vanished in the brightening air

Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands
I will find out where she has gone
And kiss her lips and take her hand

And walk through long green dappled grass
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon
And the golden apples of the sun

W.B. Yeats