If you have spent any time with me, you may be aware that I despise—that seems so strong, but I really do strongly dislike the term: “moving on.”

If you have uttered these words to me, fear not. I hold no grudges or ill will, for you see, this is my issue, not yours. It is semantics, really. Splitting hairs. But those two words, for me, mean that I am leaving Crystle behind. And I am not ready to leave her behind. So, it becomes my interpretation of these two nebulous words that is the heart of the problem.

I have chosen to face the things Crystle and I did together as part of my ongoing healing process. When she first passed, I thought I could never watch another baseball game. Never attend another performance at Shaw theatres. Never return to Las Vegas where the two of us spent more vacation time than any other place on Earth. One by one, I have faced each. First, was baseball. Watching her beloved Jays. It hurt when they traded her favourite player this year, Kevin Pillar. She was a fan of Pillar long before he was known as Superman.

Then came theatre. Most of the time I attend alone, much to the chagrin of family and friends. The first time I attended without Crystle was last season. The theatre was packed, yet the seat beside me—well, it appeared empty to the naked eye, but I know she was there with me.

A few weeks ago I went back to Las Vegas for the first time without Crystle. On Saturday afternoon, I spent my time alone, intentionally. I walked the strip. memory after memory came to me at almost every corner. I felt joy and gratitude, not sadness.

I feel I am doing very well in my life after Crystle. I have structure in my volunteering at Hospice Niagara. I am keeping social. I see family and friends regularly.

But then it strikes, out of the blue. I attended another play last Sunday night, my fifth performance this season. Like all the others, I attended alone. But on Sunday night as I was walking back to my car, the urge came over me to reach out and hold her hand; to feel her snuggle into me as we scurried through he dark streets to our car. This hadn’t happened at the four previous plays I had attended. I could feel a lump in my throat. My gait quickened.

“Where did this come from,” I wondered to myself. Once in my car I just sat there for a few moments. I realized that this was okay. It didn’t mean I was holding on to any latent grief. This was normal for a man who was not ready to ‘move on.’ There will always be those moments when the desire to be with our departed loved one will overtake us. For me, I chose not to run from it, but to embrace it.

A smile came to my face as I drove away. I am glad my love for Crystle is as strong today as it has ever been.