I turned 67 this week. In the big scheme of things, turning 67 isn’t a particularly important milestone. But for me, it is. I am now older than Bruce will ever be. He died a little more than a month before his 67th birthday and it gives me a very odd feeling. He always used to say he wouldn’t live to be an old man; his father died at 59 and he constantly joked that “Hurd men don’t last.” In spite of that, he did, in fact, last a little longer than his dad.
It’s not that I’m not grateful for the 46 years we had together, I am very grateful, many don’t get that long. But I sometimes tend to dwell on the things he’s missed in the last two and a half years – he didn’t see my book published, he didn’t get to go back to Scotland, he didn’t see the new house. And all the plans we had for traveling will never be realized. Even the most everyday things that, in retrospect, mattered most, will not come again. Having breakfast together, enjoying dinners out with friends, watching television together; now there’s always an empty seat at the table.
Frankly, I don’t miss him any less than I did when he died. Every day, I wake up and for a few minutes, I forget and it is a lovely feeling. Then the knowledge returns and there is a weight that settles on my soul like an anchor. I’ve learned to live with that weight, and I think if it was gone, I would miss it – it’s a reminder, a loved reminder of what I had.
This isn’t a recitation of self-pity, but rather an acknowledgement of something I carry. Bruce’s memory, Bruce’s essence is no hardship to bear. Of course, I would rather he were here so I could complain to him about stupid things, I could laugh at one of his awful jokes or sit at dinner and tell him not to order me any fries and still get to pick them off his plate. We all carry bits and pieces of our past with us – some good, some bad. Carrying Bruce with me is a good thing. I hope you only carry good things with you.
What hurts the most, as Rascal Flatts put it, is never knowing what could’ve been.
J. Gardner Hurd 