On this most solemn day, I remember you. I remember both the face you showed to the world and the face you kept hidden until we were behind closed doors or in private places.

I am surrounded at this hour by mourners—as I am as well—and yet feel a deep divide. I am here mourning the loss of what was, but what disappeared over time, or what should have been all along—your gentle touch, your kind words, the warmth that comes from building a beautifully woven life together, rooted in love and respect. I am mourning the loss of the times when I felt so full of hope for our shared future. I am mourning the loss of support I should have felt from you and the words of encouragement I should have heard. I am mourning the loss of the safety and safe harbor I should have felt in the home and the life we shared. 

I am mourning the loss of a relationship I should have had, but did not.

And even with this kind of grief, I also remember the times when you were funny or charming. The times when I felt special, the outside world briefly fading away. The times when I felt connected to you or lifted up by your attention or concern. The times when it seemed like the endless power of love could be enough to carry us both through the darkness together.

On this Day of Atonement, I am recalling the season when you passed away and the heartfelt tributes friends and family shared to honor your name. I remember recognizing a part of you in those tributes and also remember my own complicated feelings as I grappled with the fact that when you took your last breath, you also took with you the last hope I had of hearing a meaningful apology or acknowledgement of the emotional, financial, spiritual, or physical harm you caused.

Yes, I remember you at the rising sun and the blowing wind and the rustling leaves. Your words and deeds—the good and the painful—remain with me across the seasons throughout the year, but they do not define me. You no longer speak for me while looking right past me. Instead, I sit here, feeling the earth hold me fast, and hear my own words rising gently and clearly in the autumn air.

It is a new year. While I cannot get back what is lost, I nevertheless think about the blank pages of the book stretched out in front of me today and the wide-open gates calling me back to myself. At this solemn hour of remembrance in this moment of renewal, I feel myself breathing in the light of possibility, knowing that I can fill those pages with my own stories—my own truth—as I lift my eyes and speak now in my own voice. 

I remember.  And I will rise.