Six months after my husband’s death, I move to a small town in Pennsylvania, located on the main line. Narberth is charming and quaint in an old world sense. It immediately reminds me of a town that played a major part in my childhood. Mayberry from the Andy Griffith Show was my fantasy of where life was pure and good. Aunt Bea, Sheriff Andy, and Opie were my escape from a life far different from what they portrayed .
My apartment, located on the third floor of a walk up at 280 Haverford Avenue, overlooks the downtown area. It is the perfect place for me to begin the long healing process from his suicide.
Since I began writing this blog, I have been on a journey through my colorful past. I search for photos to post that pertain to my particular story. I run across others that are meaningful and bring back memories of those I have lost touch with over the years.
One such photo was the man who was not my father walking me down a leaf strewn path on September 28,1996. There, waiting on the banks of the Perkiomen Creek was my future husband, Pete. It was an outside wedding at the now shuttered Gypsy Rose Restaurant.
The months following my husband’s death fill with a cacophony of emotions. Ragged grief grips me at unexpected times. I scream and shed unceasing tears, trying to drown out the unanswerable questions that fill my head. Why, why why? Am I responsible for his death because I didn’t go to him? Could I have saved him if I had? Grief and guilt are a powerful elixir. Once you drink of them, they are your companions for life.