This morning, in the quiet hours before dawn, I heard a soft female voice gently singing:
Let it go. Let it go.
Her voice was barely above a whisper, sweet and tender, as though it had traveled a great distance just to reach me.
When morning came, I felt a heaviness in my heart and throat. Then I remembered.
Of course.
This is the day.
The anniversary of the night love asked everything of me.
It was late, nearing midnight. Hospice had come and gone throughout the day, checking on both of us. The aide, holding back tears, bathed him with such tenderness. The chaplain sat beside the bed in shared silence. Craig said his goodbyes.
There were many tears.
I was exhausted, heartbroken, and keeping vigil beside the man I loved.
His breathing had become shallow and labored. I climbed into bed beside him and took his hand. He squeezed mine ever so lightly.
And then I understood what was being asked.
He was holding on for me.
So I leaned close and whispered the hardest, truest words I have ever spoken:
If you see the light, go. Don’t look back. I’ll be okay.
I did not want him to go. I wanted us to stay as we were forever.
But love is not possession.
Love does not always cling.
Sometimes love opens its hand and blesses what it cannot keep.
Sometimes love says go.
For a long time, I believed this day was only the story of losing him.
Now I see it is also the story of the woman on the bed who loved enough to release.
And perhaps the voice this morning came to remind me:
You may let go now, too.
Not of him.
Of the pain.
Of the vigil.
Of the moment that froze in sorrow.
What we built did not end that night.
It changed form.
And somehow, against all odds, it still lives in me.