Where are the angels?

​Hey Babe,
 
I’m on the plane, who knows how high, writing you.  I’ve already finished 4 movies and still have another 7 ½ hours to go.  Whenever I’m flying and see clouds as I look out the window, I’m always reminded of my first airplane ride.  I was in elementary school; not quite sure how old but I was very young.  I went with my grandfather, Auntie CE, and cousin TC to visit my auntie IY in Michigan.  They made us dress up, I was wearing one of those poufy dresses and cousin TC was wearing a tuxedo.  Looking back now, it’s pretty funny that they made us dress up like we were going to a ball just to ride the airplane, especially since I get on a plane in sweats and flip flops 99% of the time now. (I know that’s my normal outfit everywhere I go, but that’s not the point.)  I remember looking out the window when we were in the air, and we were flying above the clouds.  I asked, “Where are the angels?”  I was very confused since I was told angels lived in the sky, so where are they?  Why couldn’t I see them walking around on the clouds if they lived in the sky.  I don’t remember much from my childhood, but this is a memory that I remember vividly for some odd reason.  It’s like finding out Santa Claus isn’t real. 
 
When I was flying back from Chinese New Year, I was having a rough time since we were suppose to fly back together.  I sat in my window seat (as always), looking out the window, trying to fight back the tears, and all I could see were clouds.  We were surrounded by clouds.  It was so dense, I couldn’t see anything else but clouds when I looked down.  It reminded me of the childhood memory of my first airplane ride, and I thought of you.  I imagine you were an angel living in the sky, wearing a white jump suit (not a robe) with white Nike tennis shoes and a golden halo over your head walking around on the clouds, making all the other angels laugh out loud with your jokes and sense of humor.  I’m green with envy since the angels get to see you every day now.  They get to look into your beautiful eyes, hear your voice and boisterous laughter, and see your smile.  These were the things I used to see and hear every day, but now they’re the lucky ones while I’m all alone in an eerily quiet house that I can barely live in but can barely imagine not living in either.  The only space I occupy in the house is the kitchen and our bedroom.  I even eat dinner standing over the countertop in the kitchen (and you know I hate to stand when I eat).  I generally avoid the living room and dining room when I’m by myself.  It’s like these two rooms don’t exist when I’m alone in the house.  I even watch movies on my computer in our bedroom because the thought of watching TV alone in the living room is just too hard.  Even watching some of the shows we used to watch together is hard.  The first time I watched one of our shows by myself after you passed, I broke down and started crying. 
 
I feel like part of the reason why I regressed this week was because I just couldn’t look at the empty drawers in the closet anymore; knowing you never had the chance to fill them up.  You already told me what you wanted to do with them, but you died before you could.  I would look at them as I’m walking to the bathroom (and you know that's a lot with my small bladder) or from the mirror when I’m brushing my teeth and getting ready in the morning.  I just couldn’t look at them empty anymore, so I decided it was time to fill them up with my things.  Well, let’s just say that definitely did not make me feel any better either.  I got a third of the way through and just started crying hysterically in the closet, so I had to stop.  It hit hard that this was the first act since you passed that made me realize you were never coming home again, which I now realize, I’m not ready to accept yet.  I’m still standing at the crossroads between hope and acceptance.  I know I only have one realistic option available to me (even though I’m at the crossroads), but I’m not ready to walk down that road yet.  I still want to hold on to hope for a little bit longer (even if I know it’s impossible). 
 
P.S. Car insurance may not have a widow box, but deeds on property do.  I had to sign some paperwork on Wednesday this last week to change the title on the deed, and now I’m officially a widow on a public record with the city.  When I looked at the document and saw my new title glaring at me, I just lost it.  I know that’s my new status now but seeing it for the first time officially was a lot harder than I thought.  I felt bad for the poor notary public who had to console me while I was signing a stack of paper the size of an encyclopedia.  This was the second act, so it’s no wonder I regressed, and it was a rough week.  But knowing that I was able to get up on anxiety Thursday and still go into the office (and not completely meltdown) in my mind is progress, even if I felt I regressed emotionally.  These are the constant reminders of how psychotic and frustrating grief can be.