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Eric Vaiksnoras

Would you believe that my wedding song came on just as I began creating this submission?  I haven’t heard it played in the longest time.  I’m sitting here in tears.  This same song somehow also came on the radio 12 years ago, moments after I said my final goodbye to my wife at the funeral home.  She had an open-casket service.  At the end of the service, my father-in-law went to pull his car around and waited outside for me, so I could be alone and say my final goodbye.  When I got in his car, it was just the two of us.  Time stood still and the silence was haunting.  It reminded me of when I would sometimes fall off my bike as a child; time would slow way down and life seemed different — dreamlike — almost as if I was floating yet still aware that I was falling.  So I was feeling all of this, and my father-in-law reached down and powered on the radio to break the silence.  My wedding song, Shania Twain’s “From This Moment”, rushed from the speakers and filled the car.  Gives me chills to write about it.  These type of “coincidences” happen to me on a fairly regular basis, and my mind usually seeks for ways to dismiss them.  Why?  I really don’t know.  I think it’s largely because I fear receiving a message that wasn’t a message; an incident that was an unrelated occurrence that just happened because it happened. But it’s at times like this very moment, when try as I may, the doubt and armor falls — and I stand unprotected and exposed.  It’s during these times that love simply overpowers me.   I resist the urge to protect myself, because I am unable to, and because there is no need to.  I feel safe as ever, wrapped in the love of an existence that I clearly don’t understand, and somehow, at least briefly, I realize that I don’t need to understand; I just need to feel, and be.  When I clicked on your link, I knew I wanted to contribute but wasn’t sure what to contribute.  But now I know.  I will share a picture that was taken of my wife and me dancing to our wedding song.  It’s blurry because it’s cropped and taken on an older camera phone, but I actually appreciate the blur, because it helps to capture the blurriness of our continued relationship.  I’ve come to learn that when someone dies, the relationship doesn’t end, it just changes.  This realization fills me with hope because it allows me to see that she is still there, and always will be.  She will forever be only a thought, or song, away.

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