For the Love of Joseph

Chapter 1
A Retrospective of Our Life
Just outside my Universe
from beyond the veil,
where mysteries
of the afterlife
meet the realities
I’ve known
from as far back as
I can remember, Joseph
lives in luminescence.

A fresh, cool breeze blew the partially raised honeycomb shade on the window in the master bedroom in and out. Staccato bursts of air. The sun peaked through wispy cirrus clouds, streaming light into the room. It was slightly after nine in the morning. I hadn’t yet risen; I wasn’t sure why. I didn’t feel particularly tired. Perhaps it was an emotional malaise that kept me in bed.
A shiver ran through me. My teeth chattered. I pulled the blanket up over my shoulders, high to my neck. Wrapped in its soft warmth, I soon dozed. Behind closed eyes, a lighted tunnel appeared, revealing a bloodred heart dangling beneath an arched doorway in the distance.
How lovely! I love you, too, Joseph.
After twenty-three years together, Joseph—my love, my life—had fallen ill to Parkinson’s disease and died fifteen years later. It wasn’t long thereafter that he began bringing comfort and love from the Other Side.
One night, some three and a half years after his death, Joseph visited with a slideshow of black and white photographs. Each brought me back to a day or a time in our life together. So many beautiful photographs; so many cherished memories! Joseph walking toward me in the school cafeteria the day we met, strolling hand in hand through different parts of the city, soaking in the sun at beaches and private pools, on long drives upstate, and in New England. At the movies, the theater, the opera. At flea markets and antique shops. Shopping. Setting up home in Yonkers; then Riverdale. Eating ice cream, cooking, dining, entertaining. Always together, very much in love.
There must have been a hundred slides. A retrospective of our life, patterned after the black and white movies of the thirties and forties that we so often watched. Orchestrated by Joseph, presented with love, his slideshow filled me with energy and motivated me to face the day.
Thank you, Joseph, for the poignant memories of the life we shared. You always knew how to warm my heart.

Chapter 2
Friendship
Forever Friends

There for you through thick and thin
Not a stranger, more like kin
Open armed and at the ready
Always balanced, always steady
There for you as you’re there for me
Forever friends, unselfishly

Friends may not always be at your side, but they think of you often. They call when they have exciting news. They call when they require your strength to help them wade through unhappiness. They call just to let you know they’re thinking about you.
Last night, on the first anniversary of the death of her beloved husband, Charity, my ethereal friend, phoned.
“Benita, I feel very alone.”
“You’re not alone, Charity. I’m here, on the other end of the line. And I’ve got all the time in the world to talk to you. I sometimes feel alone too. It’s very normal after a loss as great as ours.”
“I’m really sad, and I don’t feel like doing much.”
“That’s OK. Tomorrow you mightn’t feel as depressed.”
“I’m not afraid of dying, though.”
“Again, I feel pretty much the same way,” I said, settling in on the Canadian glider in the den.
“At least you’re writing.”
“That I am, thanks to your encouragement. You’re the one who said I had a story to tell, that it would be a catharsis. And you were right. Much of the pain I experienced has worn away, and I feel a lot lighter.”
“Glad I could be of help. I wish I could write.”
“You can write. You know you can.”
“But what would I write? You have a talent for writing; it’s a gift. Remember when we co-taught the poetry workshop? I didn’t always understand your poetry, but it always sounded beautiful.”
“I do remember you telling me that, and you’re very kind, but I’ll let you in on a little secret. Much of the success that comes from my writing, comes from Joe. He’s been handing me the material. When I turn the computer on, I often see that pop-up window on the screen. The one that says ‘Someone made changes since you last opened this document.’ The first time I saw it, I was a little fearful of what might have happened. As I reviewed my work, I saw words had been changed, sentences were deleted. Paragraphs were moved to different chapters of the book. Parts of the book sounded more like Joe than me. Not only had he sent me the material in signs, dreams, and visions, but he edited and revised as I wrote. Eventually, the manuscripts became a blending of our work. I always say, we cowrote the series.
“Joseph and I were a great team. A dynamic duo. We always worked well together—at school, at home, shopping, while out and about. I suppose we always will.”
“Hmm…hmm.”
“But let’s get back to you, Charity. You do have a story to write. Whatever you go through, whatever you think, whatever you feel, will touch the lives of many. Your readers may be going through much of what you are. They may be looking for information, answers—your answers. They’ll sympathize with you, relate to you, understand you, and validate you. Your story is a beautiful story. It should be told.
“And, need I remind you of a very special gift you have? You studied art in college and taught it in junior high school for several years. You draw and paint beautifully. You may wish to combine writing and art and create something really Charity-worthy.”
“That’s true, Benita. Maybe I will. Maybe we’ll collaborate on a project together. I always feel better when we chat.”
“I do too. And, Charity, when we get off the phone, I’m going to write about this call and credit you with the material. Had you not called, this chapter wouldn’t have been written.”
We laughed.
“That’s what friendship’s all about! Is it OK if I call again tomorrow?”
“You better.”
“Talk to you soon.”
Helping friends generally made me feel good about myself. I hoped Charity felt better too.