

eMails, letters, and other notes inspired by

my love for the woman who has my heart.

J. W. Nicklaus

![A Sense of my
 Bella Dea](images/image-3.png)

A Sense of my

Bella Dea

T

here are those who believe we are here, in this life, on this planet, because we are meant to fulfill

some purpose; there are those who believe that we are here simply by biological chance and when

we die that's it, there's nothing else. I am of the former group.

I believe our purposes are as individual as each of us are. I believe we are sent—more precisely, that we

agree or even desire to come here—to experience life, to learn lessons we perhaps didn't learn (or get to

learn) in former lifetimes.

I also believe that we are meant to hew to a kind of Universal Law: to understand that we have limitless

opportunities and have absolute Free Will; that to impinge or otherwise deny another their own Free Will

is a crime against Universal Law. These simple principles become mind-bendingly complex as a human

being.

We are designed, programmed if you will, to love. But again, doing so while in this physical shell is far

easier said than done. Humans are filled to overflowing with Ego, Fear, Jealousy, Hatred, Greed, Anger,

Racism . . . take your pick of pejoratives. These do their utmost, and most often very successfully, to make

us stray off the right path. Life, indeed, is a process we live through, a process of persistent learning and

growth.

But those of us who are truly blessed to encounter, to experience unconditional love with and from

another get a taste for what our true purpose is . . . and it is, without question, the most desirous and

healing sensation when it embraces us at our cores. Who wouldn't want to be baptized in that?

While that tender thread is within each one of us, and calls to us every moment of our lives, our human

nature seems hell-bent on leading us astray. Once you capture that thread between your figurative fingers

you learn it is one you cannot ever relinquish.

In the pages that follow are just some of my expressions of such a love I was, I genuinely believe, divinely

granted to experience. A woman named Denise who, in over 15 years time, taught me many lessons that

I'm sure she never was aware she was teaching—and her unsuspecting actions and influence made me a

better man.

Denise—my Bella Dea—has, in her passing on February 3, 2020, once again elevated me and further

informed my Higher Self of its intractable love for her.

This compendium of missives is by no means complete as I lost many, many emails to her when switching

hardware over the years. She told me she printed out a copy of every email I ever sent her—she called it

her 'Jeff File'. In that file of over four hundred are surely the seeds and germination of my profound

respect and love for this beautiful, wonderfully intelligent woman.

The Beginning

Every good story has a beginning, middle, and end. This story, our story, I know for certain has no end.

Sure, in the physical sense it does. You may be in the second camp I mentioned at the start of this

document, those who believe that when we die there is nothing more. I, however, know this is not the

case.

Those who know me understand me to be fairly logical, one to lean on history and science, understand

that I simply like knowing things. All that is to say that I am not of an irrational mind or prone to wild

flights of disturbing imagination—I am not the least apt to hyperbole or savage conjecture. So when I

state I have knowingly experienced Denise's presence, that I know I have felt and heard her from the

other side, understand these statements come from an entirely sane, rationale mind. I ask you to bear this

in mind going forward.

So . . . the beginning.

It started sometime around 2003 or 2004, I don't recall precisely when. I had put an ad on Craigslist

looking for someone worthwhile to at least spend time with as a friend, an ear to bend. I wasn't certain I

was ready for anything more than that at the time as I had just come out of a relationship that was, in

retrospect, pretty stupid on my part—it was yet another long-distance relationship . . .clearly I hadn't

learned my lesson from the first one (but I won't belabor that here).

The ad centered around the mythology regarding Persephone, daughter of Demeter, Greek goddess of

the harvest/agriculture. Long, long ago I lost the text of that ad which has many years since been deleted

from Craiglist's archives. But that was the gist of it. Didn't get many replies, which was fine, it was

intended to have a sort of built-in filter. It didn't take long, however, for Denise's roommate at the time, a

woman named Tina, to reply to my post.

"My roommate would love this!" Tina wrote back. She continued, revealing Denise's Yahoo Messenger ID

and telling me to send her a message, which I did a little while later. Naturally Denise was a little

uncertain about it at first, but it didn't take long before we were chatting regularly, and within about a

month or so we graduated to talking on the phone.

I believe it was somewhere around the two-month mark, or around there, when we decided to finally

meet. She had sent me a document she called her Manifesto, which laid bare her background, all her

professed flaws, and her stance on many things, especially relationships. She told me outright that we

couldn't be more than friends (at that time, at least) because invariably the guy winds up quickly

expressing his undying love for her and she most always isn't anywhere close to feeling the same. Again,

at that time I was fine with that, not wanting to have another heart-stomping bruise on my soul.

Right around the two month mark we did meet, for lunch, at a restaurant next door to my place of

employment—the restaurant was Durant's, on Virginia and Central just outside downtown Phoenix. I

remember she was wearing a white jacket and white pants, and I think a purple or pink shirt underneath.

My God she was beautiful! Full, jet black hair framing the face of a classic beauty. To say I was most

pleasantly stunned is putting it mildly.

The lunch itself went very well, I took an extended lunch and we got along great. She even punched me

in the arm as we sat talking and eating—I don't recall why but I do remember thinking she had a pretty

good arm on her.

And that, in a nutshell, is where it all began.
A Shared Intellect Without A Trace Of Competition

You may wonder what I am saying in that heading. It took very little time for us to realize that we had

much in common from an intelligence standpoint, and we both thoroughly enjoyed our frequent

conversations, often lasting an hour or more. We could discuss history, science, religion, cartoons, art,

mythology, the Universe; we could be all over the map in the course of a single conversation, always in a

stream of consciousness and flow which apparently only we understood. I can recall at least twice when

her daughter would overhear us and tell Denise "You guys are weird." In all those conversations we never

once argued, never, ever got into the slightest bit of oneupmanship. We never felt the need to prove one

was smarter than the other, because frankly, that just wasn't so. I deeply admired her intelligence, even

told her on many occasions how much I "adored her intelligence." I always told her I considered her my

equal, and that is the absolute truth.

Dedications

In 2009 I had a collection of short stories published under the title The Light, The Dark, and Ember

Between. I gave Denise a copy of it, signed of course. I believe the signature was pretty close to

"Friendship isn't in the big things, it's a million little things." I didn't tell her at the time, but by that time I

knew I was beginning to fall for her. I was terrified she'd bolt if I breathed one word about it, but I

harbored the feeling nonetheless. I knew I loved her but I could tell I was falling in love with her.

As a side story, it was probably around 2008 when she had, one day, come to my apartment to hang out

for a little while. When it was time for her to leave I walked her out to her car which she had parked

directly across from the complex office. She leaned in to put her purse in the passenger seat then stood

up again, looked at me for a moment, then grabbed me and gave me the most unexpected, most

beautiful, blissful kiss. Yeah, it was long and, dare I say, hot. Up to that point I had very much wanted to

kiss her, but due to my fear of potentially driving her away I refrained . . . that kiss, though, was indeed

manna from heaven, and those that followed over the years were no less so, certainly even better.

I know, that has nothing to do with my book or dedications. It sprang to mind because I was still in that

apartment when I received my copies of that book a year later.

The next story I wrote was titled The Apocalypse of Hagren Roose, which I self-published electronically in

2012. In that book I mentioned her in the dedication, 'For my Bella Dea'. As I look at the digital copy I

have now I don't see that dedication page; I have no idea what happened to it.

Somewhere around 2018 I began writing a third story titled Beacon. As I write this it remains largely

unfinished, perhaps 1/8 of the way done. This time I made sure I had For Bella Dea on the dedication

page. The opening quote was entirely descriptive of and meant directly for Denise, a way for me to

illustrate to her at a foundational level what she meant to me:

"Oh the comfort, the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person; having neither to weigh

thoughts nor measure words, but to pour them all out, just as they are, chaff and grain together,

knowing that a faithful hand will take and sift them, keeping what is worth keeping."

~ William Penn

That very sentiment is at the core of many of the pieces you are about to read. That quote truly expresses

how we were together, how we respected and relied upon one another. To me, it embodies a pure,

honest love which not only evolved but ascended, slowly but ever so surely, to a place few hearts have

the patience or courage to dare find.

1

H

er birthday was on September 7, six days following my own. We would, of course, exchange well-

wishes, but once in a while I (being me) would endeavor to write something for her, an attempt to

impart my perspective on her value to me. The following was sent to her in 2014 when I was working for a

six month stretch in Oregon.

I have retained the fonts and formatting so as to present it as it had been sent to her.

My dearest Denise,

Each of us approaches and finally arrives at a station in life where it would seem all but the easiest of exercises to

bow our heads and, more often than not, lose ourselves in the ashes at our feet.

But life is meant to be ever-changing, not static; to be peppered with majestic wonders and bottomless sorrows. If

we only gaze earthward then the consequences are proportionate, barely indistinguishable from the ashes. But if

we remind ourselves that the greater good is above and around us then perhaps we may be inspired to turn our

attentions toward the boundless potentials awaiting our grasp, those matters of import and countenances of magic

which concerns and worries often steal from us.

We measure a life span within our own construct of time but instinctively assess the quality of a life as the

subjective criterion of moment value—the relative worth, merit, or importance of one's defining choices, both

great and small; those incorporeal are what affect and drive us toward our better angels—those readily

discernible often distort or corrupt our weaker mortal nature.

The smallest, most delicate thread of inspiration or muted divinity can be maddeningly elusive to procure for time

and again we let them float by upon indifferent breath. But when perchance we grasp one of these tender filaments

we are gifted the beginning of the most precious and special of vestments.

Today is yet another of our methods for marking time, and a celebrated one indeed, the entrance of a life into a

world so needful of hope and affection, of a person with the potential to make a difference in the lives of others—

today is your birthday. It should be your day, marked with well wishes and gifts, of reminders from others of how

you have touched their lives . . . in moments great or small.

And yet, for me quite the reverse is true, for you are my gift. You are my most tender of threads, the soft breeze

scattering the ashes about my feet.

Our game depends not upon the turn of a friendly card, rather upon the way you constantly reveal me.

You are my countenance of magic.

You quietly urge me toward my better angels.

You make this simple man a better person.

I tell you now that you will read many affectations similar to those above, different words to be sure, but

at their core always based in the warmth and certainty of my ardent attachment to her. If the slightest

whiff of romance puts you off then stop here . . . but chances are awfully good that you wouldn't be

sitting there reading all this if you weren't in some way intrigued, or at least curious.

Moving along . . .

2

I

n April of 2015 my father passed away rather unexpectedly. I spent some time with mom in the

immediate aftermath. The morning after he passed I called Denise and she lent a sympathetic ear, as I

knew she would. "Let me know if there's anything I can do," she'd said.

"Really, just be there if I need you," I replied.

"Of course. You know I will."

Two months later I wrote to her again. Looking back I suppose I was in touch with my mortality, and as

such wanted to assure myself—and her—that I communicated the thoughts which seemed to flow from

my heart to my head and then out through my fingertips.

In the email below I had used some of George Washington's writing to influence what I was trying to say.

Few people would have bothered to try and read through 18th century style writing, but I knew she

would, and she would appreciate it not only for its prose but its heartfelt content.

I feel no sense of measure in my thoughts of most people. Rarely will I take refuge in or compel myself to summon

the time or energy to acknowledge their persistent intrusion into the solemnity of my space. We must constantly

embrace tolerance as a means of survival and, within due process, become our own architects of life. For if I may

be gossamer to the throbbing masses then I equally wish only to be immanent to a precious few.

As life is always uncertain, and common prudence dictates to every man the necessity of settling his temporal

concerns whilst it is in his power - and while the mind is calm and undisturbed, I therefore accede to the long

understood necessity of expressing the most prevalent and utmost of feelings while often misappropriating

opportunities to do so.

The matter at hand certainly is not inexpressible to my hand or mind, but perhaps to you a distant prospect of

judicious sensitivity. I only hope this may find you in the proper spirit and with no trace of unhappiness.

Thus my shout of my foregone conclusion:

I need you more than want you . . .

Yet I want you all the time.

Seems 'tis almost a kind of destiny to have been shepherded to your field. There is, I suspect, in this fate only

good purpose. For upon you I hold the most respectful value, the dearest of affections.

Love,

Me

3

F

or my birthday in 2017 she surprised me with a nice little note in her beautiful penmanship. I have

kept this picture all these years because it speaks to the care and authenticity of her sentiment. Sure,

it's a simple birthday message, but she could have just as easily, and far more quickly, typed it and sent it

via email. If her note were a prospector's pan her last sentence, for me, would sparkle with gold flakes.

4

I

t was May or April of 2018 when, after not having seen her for a while I finally drove up to Peoria to visit

her, unannounced. Our phone calls and texts had slowed to painful trickles, not because we fought or

were weary of one another, but I was to learn just over a year later, in 2019, there were ominous health

issues at play of which neither of us had any inkling. Based upon prior conversations I thought her lack of

energy, lack of appetite, and recent dislike of cooking (she was part Italian and for a long time loved to

cook) were likely based in stress she was experiencing at home. She was the glue that held that

household together and that glue seemed to be quickly losing its adhesion and crumbling.

I was shaken when she first appeared that morning—she had lost a lot of weight. Mind you, she was

never over weight, not even close, but now she was damn near literally a shadow of her former physical

self. I didn't voice my shock, but it stuck with me. Her slenderness seemed unnatural, and her professed

lack of appetite disturbed me. While I could voice my concern I was powerless to effect any kind of

change—that would have to, of necessity, come from her.

After that visit we again spoke for a couple of weeks and texted. I had suggested we take a day trip out

of town somewhere, anywhere, just to get her out and change the scenery. She initially said that sounded

good and she'd let me know when she could go. Instead she wound up going silent again.

You will read in this next letter—and in others—a reference to 'giving her space'; this was not something

new for us as once in a while she would give me an indication she, for one reason or another, needed to

be left alone. It was never anything to do with us, usually something personal, and my respect for her was

such that I always obliged her. I knew she would return soon enough, and she always did. Again, at the

time neither of us knew of the insidious health issues beginning to take hold of her, and in retrospect it all

makes much more sense now. All I could do at the time was give her space, then toss a lifeline when I

hoped to bring her back.

Come September of that year, for the first time, she didn't wish me a happy birthday. I texted her on her

birthday and got no response. Very soon after that I sat down and wrote the letter you are about to read.

I went old school this time, printing it out, actually signing it, and sending it via snail mail. I thought for

sure I would have heard from her within a week or so . . . no response ever came, not yet at least. It

wouldn't be until Christmas that I would get the smallest yet best of gifts from her.

The following is my Hail Mary to her, if you will, The Long Winter. As before, I preserve the typeface and

formatting as delivered.

The Long Winter

Rarely do I recollect events or occasions from my childhood; to be sure they were, to whatever degree, formative in ways

perhaps only a psychiatrist with a metaphysical microscope could suss out. But the memories of trees climbed, of that first

bike, of sandboxes and birthday parties are all fading ink on a geriatric seismograph. Spring was for germination and

growth, for scraped knees and sunburns, for concrete under bare feet and snacks we wouldn't dare touch now.

Spring was innocence and learning. We might be terrified had we the cognitive ability to grasp what lay before us in the

ensuing seasons. So often we only knew the lines our elders laid down . . . all the others we either ignored or colored

outside of.

During Summer we fumble clumsily with our budding wings, attempting flight and learning the hard way how to take off

and land. We hardly realize how we raced through swollen summer days, so eager to grow up, to be availed of all the

fantastic things adults get to do like stay up late, drive a car, or drink coffee and wine and see R-rated movies. Somewhere,

about mid-way through, we start to gather some addled notion of who we are . . . or so we think. What we actually

develop is a monstrous sense of hubris, stupid enough to think we know it all. Time will be instructive to that end.

As Summer begins to wane we can look back over our shoulder (if we dare) and see our early youth receding and, on the

approaching horizon, the cusp of mid-life and the first inklings of true Wisdom, which hasn't come without a cost.

Toward the end of my Summer I had my first contact with you, followed closely by my first meeting with you, at

Durant's. You wore a white pantsuit and punched me in the arm as we enjoyed one another through a late lunch. A solid

punch, too! I didn't know then how much I would come to care for and about you.

Later, an event I shall never forget until my last breath. After watching an admittedly disturbing cartoon—-the entire time

which you tried to play as if you were thoroughly disgusted, and I wasn't buying what you were selling (you did 'fess up)—-

I walked you out to your car and you very unexpectedly grabbed and passionately kissed me. How I had so wanted to do

so up to that point! I was reticent out of fear of putting you off, afraid you'd be repulsed by my brazen and/or reckless

want to taste your kiss. God, how that kiss made me feel. It sparked a thirst I cannot imagine ever being slaked.

Not too long after that, I returned the favor, after we had lunch at the Spaghetti Company just outside of downtown. It

was in December, and I gave you a gag gift of a case of Costco gloves. We later laughed at your utter frugalness when you

told me how you turn them inside out for a second use before throwing them away.

I recall the night at Mother's, on 19th Ave and Indian School. You and Alicia had a blowout argument and you badly

needed to remove yourself from the toxicity of the moment. More than that, you needed an ear to bend, a rock you could

crash upon to help dissipate the surge.

We had two trips to McAlpine's on 7th St, the Body Works show, a Dbacks game with Alicia and Chayce, visits to Ikea,

a morning spent at Sea Life Aquarium at Arizona Mills, and another fun memory. . . .the night I met you at Bookman's

on Northern. You drove up to where I stood on the sidewalk and asked "How much?" Then, as we browsed about we

walked toward the front of the store and you blurted "What this shit over here?" You almost immediately caught yourself

then added "I'm such a classy broad."

Countless conversations over uncountable hours, each a quiet joy I have curated in the velvet red corners of my heart; your

laughter and energy still resonate within.

There have been times which you have fallen absent, each of which I knew you needed or wanted time and space of your

own, to sort out what you needed. The longest one had been about nine months, a stretch I very much felt, yet respected

because it's what you needed to do. But this current vacancy has the chewed earmarks of an austere loss for me. How I

have missed you, missed your company, your spirit, your laughter—-of course, your kiss—-your simple yet venerable

presence. Heaven knows how profound the void no other could possibly fill. Yet I fear an irrevocable silence.

Oscar Wilde wrote "And all at once, Summer collapsed into Fall." I live in a place where the stench of noisome

civilization pervades my senses instead of the heady sweetness of decaying leaves; where those same leaves cannot possibly 
crunch underfoot, only the vestiges of hollowed out memories. Those leaves don't actually 'change' or 'turn' different colors

—-the sunshine which once reacted so fully with chlorophyll is slowly diminishing in length, so the browns, oranges, yellows

and reds that were always there now become prominent over the once pervasive green. That which was always there is now

able to present its flourish. The autumn of my soul remains crisp with memories of time spent in your affective company.

After all the emails, all the expression of inner thoughts and emotion, what remains is what the French call la douleur

exquise. Yet alongside it, threads entwined, is the persistent, unmistakable tug of the heart, the warm undeniable whisper

that somehow, someway, there is a reason for you having been in my life—that you are meant to be there.

I am sure you have puzzled over why I would love you. A plurality of reasons endure, despite my apparent emotional palsy.

Why does a rose have its particular scent, for a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, right?

Why did life choose to evolve here? Given the conditions we know of in our solar system, the abundant violence among

our stellar neighbors in the Milky Way, let alone the overall universe . . .so much says we shouldn't be here, yet here we

are.

So, too, are the many estimable and sound heartfelt proofs which manifest in my attachment to you, resolute and just as

gossamer . . . yet I cannot in my dreams or my waking hours withdraw my affection from my heart no matter the exertion

to assuage my mental self.

I love you for you.

Should Time come to steal me I would most fervently wish for you, my ever dear woman, to keep this letter perhaps as a

warm reminder of the most affective, beautiful and conspicuous consequence imparted upon me. Though my voice and

hands be still, that you should have meaningful reassurance of your genuine value and unquestionable, precious worth.

I strive hard to expiate those trespasses I have made upon your very self, if only in the most vain attempt to disentangle

this Gordian knot of my unrelenting attachment to you. In my pitiful ability to properly and fully address my feelings,

please understand you are held in the most untiring esteem, for I have always valued your wonderful intelligence and held

you in the most intimate of respect. Mine is not mere adoration—-you know I do not ignorantly adore anyone. Moreover,

adoration isn't love. My thoughts and need for you are not based upon nor derived from any sort of deluded romantic

scripture. I struggle with proper description because it resists material quantification. Starlight or daylight, mine is a

continuum of beguilement, of unending intrigue of you.

Goddamnit! I am so frustrated with my inability to properly express myself. I'm trying like hell but it seems to come

across as talking (or writing) in circles. Please forgive me. 😞

There is no part of myself which can come to terms with a time to let you go—-my heart keeps holding on. I may never

know if my loving you was right or wrong. Long have I thought about the simplest of affectations, to sometimes hold each

others hands, sometimes lift each others hearts.

In the distance, hiding just behind the jagged horizon, is the long winter. Sewn into her fabric of shorter days are the

recollections of seasons past, some to warm us against the encroaching chill, some to settle at our feet, quiet and gentle as

falls the snow.
From Abigail Adams, in a letter to John Adams: ". . . and there is a tye more binding than Humanity, and stronger than

Friendship... unite these, and there is a threefold chord – and by this chord I am not ashamed to say that I am bound, nor

do I believe that you are wholly free from it."

I never want nor wish to be anybody's emotional liability, rather their passionate asset. If I have become the former, I most

sincerely and genuinely apologize, for it surely was never my intent.

And finally, if I may quote Thomas Jefferson, from a letter he sent to Alexander Hamilton's sister-in-law, Angelica Schuyler

Church: "I never blame heaven so much as for having clogged the etherial spirit of friendship with a body which ties it to

time & place. I am with you always in spirit; be in spirit with me."

Though I ardently hope for the silence to be put asunder, understand I am with you always. If I am afforded good fortune

then I shall surely have you restored to me.

I chose Caslon as the font for this letter for, unsurprisingly, Jeff-type reasons. The content of the letter could

use a more romantic, perhaps smoother, more evocative look. I will unreservedly accede to that. But Caslon

harkens back to early American history. Caslon was the typeface used for the first printing of the Declaration

of Independence and the typeface used on America's first paper currency. There is, within that history, an indirect yet warm

attachment to John and Abigail Adams, perhaps the best documented couple in American history, thanks to their over

1,200 letters to each other. Their relationship, and their strong sense of revolutionary purpose and independence, is a

wonderful reminder for me of you—-you in the sense of Abigail and her strength and intelligence. John made no qualms

about where and how his wife held status in his life, remarking a number of times as to how Abigail, his "dearest Friend",

was very much his equal—-as I have said to you a number of times.

So, Caslon it is.

I mailed that letter in mid-September yet heard nothing from her until Christmas Day that year. I had

texted her my usual 'Merry Christmas', and later that afternoon she texted back. I asked her if she

received the letter I had sent a while back and she replied "I read it every day." I wouldn't hear from her

again until July 18, 2019, some seven months later, when I would finally learn the foreboding reason for

her silence.

5

S

urely most anyone reading this may wonder why I didn't simply drive to her house and see what was

happening. To be entirely honest I can't provide a solid reason—that course of action does, on its

face, make sense, I get that. But our relationship had always been one of trust and deep respect. If she

wasn't answering my calls or texts, hadn't replied to my letter (except for the brief text exchange

Christmas Day) then I felt the higher road was to continue to honor her apparent wishes for space.

For my part I struggled with the omnipresent battle of not knowing what was going or how she was

doing. Had she died? Had she moved? Had she met someone else and got married and didn't want to

tell me? Had she simply decided to 'ghost' me, to cut me loose with no explanation? As the months

passed I talked plenty with my angels, kept asking for some nugget of information so I could, at the very

least, have a meager notion of what had happened. Still, nothing came.

So, on July 16, 2019 I sent the following email to her as what I figured may likely be my final effort to

reach her, and maybe even get her to talk to me again. I titled this email Yes, Still Here . . .

In 1778 Abigail Adams watched her "dearest friend" John and their oldest son, John Quincy, board a ship

bound for Paris, the Boston. The six-week sail was worse than John had imagined. The ship survived twenty

foot waves, being chased by British frigates, and even managed to seize a British merchant ship, the

Martha. But back in Braintree and Boston rumors circulated that Benjamin Franklin had been assassinated

and the Boston had been sunk by the British. John Adams, keenly aware of the potential for his letters

falling into British hands, had taken to writing infrequently, and even then only in the most terse of letters,

notes really.

With such lengthy gaps between their correspondence and the rampant rumors constantly swirling Abigail

became increasingly concerned. In one letter she wrote "I shall wait with impatience till I receive tidings

from the well known hand of my dearest friend. O', when, when shall it arrive? But hush my anxious heart."

For endless months I have deliberated about writing to you again. Instinct needles me, tells me nothing

shall be forthcoming. "She is through with you," it says. "Move along, there is nothing left to see."

Yet my hope, if perhaps futile, is that I would have earned enough respect from you to warrant at least the

softest of dismissals from your hand—to honestly state the terminable sin which drove the final wedge

between us. But with equal strength I hope this is merely a lengthy intermission and not the aforementioned

ending.

Dammit all, I miss you! If I have been replaced or relegated to the has-beens then at least tell me. I ask not

for outright discovery of your circumstances, only that I may know if ever I shall hear your voice again or be

fortunate enough to once again hold your beautiful countenance in my own eyes.

I never once imagined you would ghost me, perhaps hoping I would simply stay away and never bother you

again. I hate like hell to think I was wrong. The Denise I always knew would, eventually, discuss it with me,

as she had so many other troubling matters. I have been respectfully distant knowing that once in a while

you want space. I have a most difficult time with the notion that fifteen-plus years are little but a bleary,

diaphanous memory. Unlike most men I never spent time with you in the hope of uncovering your physical

charms—I spent time with you because I so very much wanted to. I enjoyed your company for your

company; that you happen to be beautiful is merely a delicious bonus. I cannot sever the invisible tie that

binds . . . I haven't the will nor desire to do so.

My will and desire are to once again let my dearest friend know of her precious value. Screw what the rest

of the world thinks, I know beyond certainty that I need her. I know unreservedly how much I miss her,

every facet of her.

I shall wait with impatience till I receive tidings from the well known hand of my dearest friend. O', when,

when shall it arrive? But hush my anxious heart.

Always,

Me

I sent that email at 10:48am. I'd hoped to receive a reply, at the latest, early that evening.

It didn't come.

I waited all the next day . . . still, no response.

It seemed I might never know what happened to her, might never know why she left my heart to wither

and die. Then, on the second day, I unexpectedly received this from her . . .

The long winters' frost began to thaw, quickly.

She was right, it was a long conversation, which was certainly nothing new for us. During that call she

explained how she had, for at least the last two years, been battling with leg pain and general leg

cramps; her internal thermostat used to run on the hot side—she would run a fan in her bedroom in the

heart of winter because she couldn't seem to get cool enough . . . now, for quite a while she couldn't

seem to get warm, she was always cold. She used to hate being outside during the scorching Arizona

summers, but now she actually liked sitting outside on her shaded porch during the heat of the day

because it helped warm her.

She had almost no energy, and she wasn't being dramatic. She'd spend many waking hours in bed

because she just had no energy to get up. As if all those symptoms weren't troubling enough,

increasingly she was having bouts of frightening panic attacks because she couldn't catch her breath, and

to top it all off, she still had zero appetite—not just that nothing sounded good, she was literally not

getting any kind of signal from her body to eat. She had to set alarms on her phone to remind her to eat,

and when she did eat it was very little.

During that call we played amateur medical sleuths, trying to suss out what might be the underlying

cause or causes for her declining health. She had quit smoking over ten years prior, didn't drink, didn't do

drugs. Her current doctor kept testing her and said all the results kept coming back clean, then kept

telling her it was all in her head. With my next breath I emphatically told her it was time—now, not later—

to find a new doctor, and fast. She already had an appointment set for August 15 with someone new.

During that call I told her I would not, could not accept having her absent from my life. I made her

promise she would never disappear again, and she made—and kept—that promise. I look back now and

kick myself a little for not telling her right then that I had been in love with her for years, but I was terrified

she'd back away again, that I would lose her for good. I did tell her I loved her, which I had done before.

Now, finally, we were once again reconnected, this time for good, and in the ensuing months we became

closer still.

6

D

uring that soul-renewing call I had asked her why, after so much time, had she decided to contact

me again. She met my query with her unique mix of honesty couched in tongue-in-cheek humor:

"Because you were so fucking persistent." I would learn later, during a conversation with her daughter

Alicia two days after her passing, that her daughter played a crucial role in our reconnecting.

Several times Alicia asked Denise if she had spoken to me lately. Each time her mother would tell her she

wasn't up to it, often stating she "just didn't have the energy." Alicia was keenly aware of how much we

meant to one another if only by virtue of the number of times I'd be talking to Denise and she'd walk in

the room and her mother would say "It's Jeff" and Alicia would yell "Hi Jeff!" She knew, better than I,

how much I helped bring her mother comfort by simply always talking with her.

I suspect Alicia's crucial aid was administered very close to the same time I sent Denise Yes, Still Here . . ..

Alicia explained to me she finally told her mom "You can't just cut those who truly love you out of your

life. You have to talk to him!" I can't help but think that those words, from a young lady wise beyond her

young years, combined with my email—and persistence—tipped the scales in my favor.

And so, once again I was blessed to have her back in my life, for good this time.

We talked all the time, and I kept trying to set up a lunch meeting with her in late July and into the

middle of August, but she clearly wasn't in improving health, seemed quite the opposite. Her panic

attacks were increasing and she found, unbelievably, she had even less energy than before—and her

bouts with breathlessness were on the rise as well.

She went to see her new doctor on the 15th, who, thankfully, was immediately concerned with her lack of

appetite and prescribed an appetite stimulant, which helped. On the 21st I'd sent her a text conveying

how much I missed her and looked forward to seeing her soon. She replied with an email to me on the

22nd which opened with:

"You miss somebody that you used to know. I am searching for her as well. Little by little, everyday, I

feel I lose a bit more of myself. It's fucking frightening . I am just not me. I maybe can fake it a little

through a phone call, but it's exhausting. "

"Frightening." That word really hit home for some reason. Her genuine fear was palpable. We talked a

few more times in the next week when she had the wherewithal to get out of bed and function enough to

engage during a call. Her health was getting incrementally worse.

She had made a return appointment with this new doctor but couldn't get in for almost another two

weeks, so she could only wait it out and hope that perhaps additional food intake, with the nutrients and

protein she sorely needed, would begin helping.

That word 'frightening' kept bouncing around in my skull. In our 'reconnection' back in July I firmly told

her "I am never going to leave you, I will never, ever abandon you." I knew I needed to find a way to

reinforce that sentiment, to let her know I was constantly trying to intuit a way to begin easing, or at least

relieving her physical and emotional anguish. I had no idea (nor credentials) how to do so, so I turned to

the only way I knew best—I'd write to her. She understood me and my writing.

On August 29 I sent her the letter below entitled The Sentinel.
Frightening

A word not to be trifled with, one inherent with a rich, if unsettling, gravitas.

It is also homological—it describes itself, like tiny, unhyphenated, normal. Just for fun, words that do not describe

themselves are heterological, such as German (not a German word), monosyllabic, and misspelled.

'Frightening' is heavy enough, suffused with all those types of things we fear but may be just out of reach—harm hasn't

come yet, but the threat of it slowly builds. Left unchecked we reach a state of emotional hysteria . . . terror.

Terror—the complete and willing usurpation of ourselves to fear. The dictionary defines it (wonderfully) as "overmastering

fear". But what is fear, really? Perhaps just a simple subjugation of our intuition, as you have succinctly put it, a lack of

control over self. . . .which is, indeed, frightening.

But what if we were to take up a philosophical knife and cleave fear into its subjective and objective components. To, upon

dissection, reveal the 'romantic' side (that of the mind or emotion) and on the other, the 'classical' side (of matter or

substance, logic). Arguably the exercise exposes an abyss of vulnerability on the subjective side and, seemingly, a mere

crack in the pavement on the classical end, one which any of us can easily cross, almost subconsciously.

Yet, instead of acknowledging fear for how it holds us hostage, and shuffling off its fetters and chains—which allows us to

step across the breach in the pavement—we struggle within the anaconda's coils, and it tightens all the more around us.

As I understand it, you are caught in the maelstrom between these two worlds; like the Earth, bound to the Sun's gravity

but never falling into it. The point is, fear only exists because there is an invisible agreement between the subjective and

objective.

Consider the following: For a thing to exist there must be an object—but we don't, we can't recognize it as such yet

because it is simply form, some thing. We can look at a TV or a car and recognize it as such due to experience. But at

some point we had no idea what those things were, they were objects without definition.

As a subjective entity we can label or define an object, but this is a matter of mind . . we already have the undefined matter

(the object), right? On the other side of that equation is the mental construct of it. In between the two, in that tiny lapse

between object and subject, exists the reason for their existence. A thing cannot exist if it does not possess the attributes

of both mind and matter, of both the objective and subjective—it is in-between that we can understand what it is. The

entity in the middle is the parent to both.

Now, step back for a second and let that sink in.

If we cannot define something, that is to say, some kind of matter—an object, technically, doesn't exist, although it's there,

we lack the ability to apply emotional logic to it, to understand it and meld the two together. That tiny lapse between object

and subject becomes a gaping chasm.

When the slightest drip of insight dribbles into that gap it's like lemonade for the thirsty giant. Not near enough to satisfy

but a tease of what comprehension may be waiting to fill that glass.

Here's another homological word: belief. A conviction of assuredness. Faith. I would not offer you false pretenses of hope if

I felt none were applicable. I have a genuine, an almost shameless confidence that you will breech this dark moat that

keeps you isolated. The fear that grips you only retains power if you feed it. Light, however, is on its way to commence the

excision of shadow, scalpels of hope and understanding are on the horizon. Nightfall may seem to gather, an array of

gloomy stars overhead, your sense of direction never stabilized—you don't know where you are. Affix your gaze to one star

instead of all of them. Reference is the key to direction. Discernment, not divination, is the candle to light the way to the

exit.

I submit to you this is not some vulgar rationalism. Nor is it conceptually irrational. Perhaps you can tell I have spent some

time in contemplation of you and your current (fluid) state. Why make fluid parenthetical? Because it more fully emphasizes

present tense, an ebb and flow of anxiety and normalcy—a discordant conduit between now and the next moment.

You struggle, to some extent, to understand the spirit or essence of your occupying apparitions. You thirst to transcend the

fog and see the geography below, to search for weakness in the vitiation these disconnects have wrought. But it's damn

near impossible to rise on the thermals if you can't feel the sun. Your own physical nature, your very biology seems

compelled to enslave you to the chaotic fireworks of your brain. But this is, I promise you, temporary; this is not a tunnel

with no exit.

Oh, to slip the surly bonds of time! At my mere thought to travel two months, six months, a year or more into the future and

return with answers to many distressing questions— but I only want the key to your question. To return with once elusive

answers would surely have people queued up to kiss the ground I walked upon — there is but one kiss that matters to me,

one that dispels blue days and dissolves cold, black nights, an endearment to swallow winter's austerity and leave spring's

joy in its wake.

Plato wrote "Courage is knowing what not to fear." Terror is immobilizing . . . Fear is debilitating—but Courage . . . courage

is their utter deflation. I have known you long enough to fully understand you have a wellspring of courage within. The

Denise I know—the woman that is still there—is a fighter, a scrapper. Drink from that spring deeply, Bella. Coffee is ain't,

but it's a true blue ass kicker.

Heaven knows I have felt isolated before, if not often—but nothing like what you are trying to work through now. I am

always here, a sentinel at the ready should you want help to reach beyond the emptiness.

Why?

Because I feel alone in this world without you, and because I am a better man with you.

I sent that to her on August 29. Unfortunately her new normal didn't allow her to read it until later.

On my birthday, September 1, she sent the following text:

Oh yeah, we definitely talked that day. Long story short, she didn't go in for surgery that day. It wouldn't

be until five days later, on the 6th, that she would undergo a procedure to install a mitroclip inside her

heart to hold down a valve which would increase circulatory efficiency.

As anyone might imagine, she was scared. The morning of August 31 she literally could not catch her

breath. She told her roommate Danny "Grab the keys, we're going to the hospital now!"

The morning of Sept. 2, the day after she had checked herself into the hospital, she sent me a text

regarding The Sentinel; she'd finally read it . . .

Her procedure on the 6th was successful, and her daughter, Danny, and I breathed a collective, massive

sigh of relief. She wouldn't be out of the hospital though until a week later. She told me that while she

was ever so grateful for the staff, for her daughter, and for me she missed her dogs at home—she was

itching to leave.

7

S

he made it through the procedure with flying colors. All that day and the next they had her doped up

on this drug and that. At one point she told me she was so drugged up she dreamt of dancing

chocolate doughnuts—she was entirely rational when we talked but clearly her edges had gone from

sandpaper to marshmallow. We laughed, hard, about the doughnuts.

On the morning of September 9 I sent her the following email to tell her how deeply glad I was she was

still with us. I titled it Beautiful Remains.

It's about 6am.

From where I sit a sliver of the sun is peeking just over the horizon dousing the undersides of clouds in its warm, golden

glow. Palm trees along 3rd Street are steadily going from silhouette to statuesque. Most everyone, myself included, sees this

as the beginning of another day, another span of daylight bringing with it responsibilities and things to get done. Some of

us will breeze through it, others will stumble—but Nature isn't about the individual, She's about the Gestalt, the whole. Her

structure such that no deviation may occur without profoundly affecting everything else top to bottom. We puny

individuals plot to disrupt Her designs, but She's patient. Her and Father Time always have the last word.

Within this context, between the opportunity of another sunrise and the discourse of silent provincials, I am mindful of

what matters most.

An argument could certainly be made that many things we do are of import: work to pay bills, make decisions, cook, clean,

etc. yet none of it means a damn thing without purpose. We need to know—to feel—there is a reason for drawing our next

breath. If nobody cares then what's the point? The following, Bella, is my oft-expressed message to you. I now see that

sunrise much clearer, not simply better defined by sight but more distinctly defined in mind. I always appreciated my time

and memories of you before, but now, ever grateful for the advances of medicine, I am profoundly appreciative of all you

have brought to me and remain ever hopeful you will continue to do so. Time may abrade me, but your presence and

comfort shall certainly, I most fervently hope, keep my soul supple and always in the most affective of motion.

You are still with us, with me. Nature and Time have not had their say yet. A thousand candles surround me when I hear

your voice, or see you sent me a text . . . Time and responsibility may burn the wicks down and soften the wax, but the

warmth of their light remains.

You remain.

You matter.

You are my Bella Dea, my inner sunrise. I am deeply grateful to my angels for having watched over you.

Love,

Your puny mortal 😊

I sent the email at 7:03am; I texted her at 7:07am. She was lying in her hospital bed, bored, and I was

only too happy to provide her my attentions.

Four minutes later she texted back . . .

She stated the email was "sooo beautiful", which for me echoed every self-evident truth about her own

beauty, both internal and external. That she found it evocative in the most positive of respects set my

heart aglow that morning. The rest of me continued to burn the most loving flame for her, as it had for

many years.

8

A

s a result of all the testing she underwent when first admitted she was told she had Type 2 diabetes,

on top of potential cardiac failure and everything else. To this day I am still, frankly, in awe of this

woman's fortitude. Many others might simply crumple under such conditions. She had confided her

deepest fears to me, and yet I was still nothing short of amazed at her ability to soldier forth even in the

face of intimidating odds.

Getting through the mitroclip procedure, and all the subsequent follow up tests and re-tests, was just the

beginning of her war of Will with her own body. She had been prescribed a daily menu of medications,

one of which was a diuretic; they discovered she was accumulating fluid around her heart. She could, in

little more than a day, put on nearly 2 pounds of weight from fluid retention alone. She was already

underweight so the gain was, initially, a small psychological victory, but one short lived. She had to take

the diuretic to prevent fluid buildup so as to not overly stress the heart. In addition to that she had to

inject insulin at least a couple times a day, all the required finger-sticks to check glucose levels, and on

the horizon a prescription for Gabapentin to help with what was to become seriously debilitating leg pain,

a suffering of such magnitude it's hard to wrap my head around.

But, for a short time—a woefully short time—she seemed to improve, her quality of life sliding up the

scale for the first time in years, if only incrementally.

I was days away from embarking on the very vacation she and I had discussed for many years . . . a trip

overseas to Italy and Greece. My son was stationed at the naval base in Naples, Italy, so it was a golden

opportunity to visit him and experience sites I had long read about and studied from afar. I absolutely

looked forward to spending this time with him, but I had, for many years, told Denise this was a trip I

could only ever imagine doing with her. I got to do just that, in a removed sense. As it turned out, my

steady stream of pictures, texts, and phone calls proved to be a welcome release for her from what once

again devolved into another crippling bout of medicated isolation and being bed-bound.

9

O

n Sept. 16, 2019 I finally sat in Terminal 3 at Sky Harbor Airport awaiting my first of three flights to

get to Naples, Italy. It had been quite some time since I had last seen my son but technology

allowed me to stay in close contact with him, which helped close the distance. I was truly eager to see

him again, but equal to my excitement was the discouragement of not having Denise with me on this

journey. Recall that we were directly 'introduced' as a result of my initial Craigslist post about Persephone.

We'd sprouted from the seed of Greek mythology, traversed many myths of the Gods and Heroes of

antiquity, discussed in glorious geeky detail and ardor the Emperors of Rome and its culture, and lost

ourselves countless times in both metaphor and marvel of mythological narrative and in the splendor and

awe of both cultures' building prowess. My son had seen these places at least twice already during his

stay in Italy, but it was only out of the opportunity to see them due to his stationing—Denise and I had

dreamed together of experiencing these places not as simple opportunity but as a matter of ardent

fascination and human wonder.

My time with him would be a wonderful experience indeed, one which I certainly would never trade for

any riches, material or otherwise. But to share such a trip as this, to have a genuine affair of intellect

beside Denise, was always uppermost and closest to my heart. She would be with me every possible

moment, as I later wrote to her at the end of my trip:

"You have brought depth to my experiences here, encouraged me to document what I might otherwise

have simply photographed with my mind's eye. You were here with me every footstep, every moment of

discovery and awe. You, Bella, were my quiet muse. I can hardly wait to experience it all over again side-

by-side with you."

On that morning at the airport I texted her, trying to catch her between the three different doctor

appointments she had that day. I didn't receive her first reply until my flight touched down at JFK in New

York:

Did that feel good? You better believe it! My brain immediately began scheming on how I was going to

make that happen within the next year or so—perhaps as a honeymoon? Yes, I had planned on

proposing, but such an event, such a matter of cathartic gravitas required good timing, and in her current

state of health that timing wasn't apparent just yet. I would need to wait a little while, but hoped to get

on my bended knee and ask her before the year was out, if not before our birthdays.

A few days later, after acclimating to the time change and my son getting out of work early we departed

for Rome. Of course I had alerted Denise to make sure she was ready in time for 'our' trip. The night of

our arrival we found a nice restaurant about two blocks from the Colosseum and ate dinner al fresco. It

was a beautiful night and I was already in ultra-geek mode over being in the Eternal City. When we came

off the subway at Colosseo Station I exited the metro and was rewarded with a stunning view of the great

Colosseum right across the street. I was there! Immediately I seized the moment to call Denise and

babble like an idiot about where I was standing—I knew I wanted her to experience my excitement first-

hand, just as if she were standing there with me. That night as we sat waiting for our dinner I sent her the

following text:

She pulled the words directly from my soul.

My trip was less than a week old and I had already sent her I don't even know how many pictures and

texts, and we had talked a few times as well. As I prepared to travel to Athens for our next adventure we

shared this exchange:

Once again I took pleasure in sending her lots of pictures of our trip into Athens, of our AirBnB, of the

Temple of Zeus, Hadrian's Arch, and some shots from afar of the acropolis and the Parthenon. She shared

my excitement and sent me this text that evening:

The next day was a big one for me, not as if this whole trip wasn't off the charts in terms of my kind of

grandiose, but the next day was our time to hike up the acropolis to finally lay eyes on the very icon of

Greece, the Parthenon. The evening of our arrival in Athens, I texted her . . .

The next day I tried to absorb every nuance of my experience: my time with my son, walking through the

city up to the Parthenon, every detail I tried to somehow capture so I could relate it to her. After our long

day of playing tourist I spent some time in the shops at the base of the acropolis looking for gifts for her

and her daughter. I sent a picture of one of the small gifts I got her which was carefully packaged in a

small bag with bubble wrap—she hated not knowing what it was. She once told me she had actually

unwrapped Christmas presents before everyone else and then rewrapped them, such was her desire to

know. So now the emoji in the text below may make more sense . . .

Come October 1st I was closing in on the end of my vacation. I had about a week left, lots of pictures,

texts, and conversations yet to have about Florence and Pompeii, and of her now slow slide back into

declining health. She texted me that morning of the 1st . . .

On October 9 I sat down to try to compose an email to her in a vain attempt to convey my thoughts and

feelings regarding her being a part of such an incredible trip. As I wrote and edited, and wrote and

edited, trying to find the right words to say, it rained outside my son's condo, so I titled the email Rain

From Italy . . .

Words often come fairly easily to me, but when they don't you know it's because I am overcome or overwhelmed by the sheer

depth and scope of what I'm trying to express. This is one of those occasions.

What I can tell you is you being present for me during this trip has made a world of difference. Of course I have thoroughly

enjoyed my time with Chayce, getting to experience things with him I never thought I would. But he's been to all those places

before, and while I perhaps brought along information he didn't know it was still another trip into Italy's interior for him—not

unpleasant, just another trip.

You have been my most affective conduit, my bridge between mere sightseeing and expression of historical ardor—a bit like

taking the cap off a new bottle of soda; sometimes you can hear the sound of the pressure escaping the bottle, and the ensuing

sips of liquid are wonderfully sweet and satisfying.

Thank the gods (see what I did there 😁) you were available to talk to. You have brought depth to my experiences here,

encouraged me to document what I might otherwise have simply photographed with my mind's eye. You were here with me

every footstep, every moment of discovery and awe. You, Bella, were my quiet muse.

I can hardly wait to experience it all over again side-by-side with you.

Yours,

Me

She didn't get to read it until over a day later. I received her reply when boarding my return flight to the

US at Charles De Gaulle airport in France. Once back home I would learn of the onset of her horrific leg

pain and the side effects Gabapentin was having on her. As it turned out our plans to have her come to

my place to re-live the experience through photos on the big screen would have to wait for just over two

months. My earthbound angel was once again suffering and I felt helpless to do anything about it.

10

T

he remainder of October, and the entirety of November and December were punctuated with texts

that throbbed with her suffering: "Sorry I didn't call you back, I was miserable all day", "Horrible day

yesterday. I'll call you later", "God I am so miserable. I hate my life." I assure you we talked, but those

calls tended to be every other day instead of the usual every day. I could tell, even when she'd say she

didn't think she could talk long, as soon as we began speaking she would, in five or ten minutes time,

begin actually sounding better. We always found something to have a laugh about, and by the time we'd

hang up I could hear the slightest smile in her voice. My desire to take away her pain was only matched

by my utter inability to do so, but if merely being present for her brought her temporary relief then I

would do that as much as she would let me.

Her descriptions of her leg pain were brutal: sometimes she said it felt like they were on fire, others she'd

say it felt like her muscles were contracting as much as they could but they wanted to contract more. The

Gabapentin she was taking would help but it also knocked her out so she slept most of the day and then

had to repeat the dosage at night. If she didn't take the medication she might be able to stay up for a

couple hours at best before the pain became unbearable, then when she took it she'd be out for hours.

Heaven wanted her upright but Hell saw to it she was pinned down.

Denise had never really been one to sit down for long, she couldn't help but remain active and

productive in some manner. She admitted to having a bit of a control problem as regarded her immediate

environment, so it would surprise no one that being a prisoner of your own four walls was making her

depressed. I will say though, with complete honesty, that I never heard deep depression when we spoke

—sure there was frustration, pain, sadness because she couldn't get things done, but always I sensed her

stronger desire to fight. She didn't like being bested, but her body was throwing her challenges she never

dreamed she'd face. Slowly but with increasing surety she began not caring about things that couldn't or

wouldn't get done. She wasn't so much resigned to her ailing health as she was that she was incapable of

doing much about daily life.

Many times when we'd text she would tell me she was about to get in the bath. Most of us bathe at least

once a day for obvious reasons of hygiene; Denise was doing it to help relieve her unbelievable leg pain.

She was discovering that the longer she took the Gabapentin the less she seemed to be able to feel heat

—oh, she still experienced pain, but was becoming insensitive, to some degree, to sensations of heat.

She told me her bath water would always be steaming yet she could barely feel the warmth at all when

she got in.

Didn't she see specialists? You bet she did. Two said there wasn't anything they could do for her because

they couldn't find a reason or source for the searing pain. A third told her, very coldly, "That's just your

new norm. You'll have to get used to it." Understandably she was much displeased with all of them. But

being that her insurance limited the number of doctors she could possibly see she was stuck with the

third one, at least for a little while . . . we'll be encountering her again in a bit.

I offered to come up to her house to visit, to keep her company, to help with whatever I could, but while

she never outright said "Don't come over" she was emphatic that she most likely wouldn't be good

company, if any company at all, since she was always in bed and perpetually in wretched agony. So I had

to remain lovingly patient to see her again, to bring her all the goodies I'd got her, to once again steep

myself in her presence.

11

I

n spite of her health-imposed solitary confinement we managed to not only remain in close contact but

seemed to grow closer with every shared moment. Much of our time talking involved discussions of her

current state, which I didn't mind in the least despite her oft stated mantra "I'm sick of talking about me."

But I invariably wound up steering us back to her, not in contradiction to her wishes but because I truly

cared about her. She didn't know I was in love with her . . . yet. But she knew I loved her, so taking all the

time in the world to let her vent, confide, or just ramble was fine with me—I got to hear her voice and

that alone fed my soul.

About the first week of December I had a gut feeling, a warm intuition, that I needed to once again write

something for her, to once more open a vein and let my thoughts and feelings for and about her flow. But

I wasn't entirely certain how to do so. Undoubtedly you now can tell I had no problem declaring my

feelings to her in one fashion or another. Nothing wrong with writing the way I had. But I wanted a

different approach. It eventually came to me once I simply let it come . . . I would present it in a narrative

manner, perhaps as a short story.

The piece below, Conversation With An Angel, was the last one I would ever get to write for her that she

would be able to read with mortal eyes. I emailed it to her on December 19.

ast night I lay in bed doing my usual lull-myself-to-sleep bit, finding something to ruminate

over long enough to induce drowsiness and drift off into blessed slumber. As of late I seem to

focus my darker impulses on imaginatively inventive yet equally disturbing ways of dispatching

those I find useless or abhorrent to me; needless to say, I spend many hours consumed with

such negative, unproductive reveries.

But last night, for reasons that elude me, I thought of simpler things, memories I hadn't recalled in years, if

not decades: kicking rocks on the walk home from elementary school and running around barefoot in the

summer. I recalled walking to the public bus stop in Tucson to catch the first bus of the morning on the

northeast corner of Wilmot and Broadway that would take me all the way to its terminus at Pima Community

College's West campus, those of dark mornings, the interior lights of the bus knifing through the early

murkiness. On those long rides I would read textbooks and highlight stuff to review later; I remember

reading a specific book that I really enjoyed, Quest for the Faradawn. I even hand-wrote a letter to the

author and he wrote me back.

I suppose the book, reading, and remembering college stirred dusty neural connections, eventually leading

to my old backpack. I used the same backpack for all four years of college, having darned one of the lower

bottom corners a number of times to keep using it. This, in turn, reminded me of the moon boots I wore

while at NAU. I loved those things, so fluffy and warm! They let a desert boy stomp through large mounds of

snow with impunity, and also enjoy that crisp yet satisfying sound of snow crunching underfoot. Those

boots, too, I took to repairing, using rubber cement to try and keep a couple small flaps of material from

tearing further. These recollections soothed me enough to shake off the mantle of consciousness.

At some point, as I often do, I entered that state of semi-sleep, that point where we aren't sure if we are

delusional or awake, neither of which is immediately comforting. I was lying on my right side, draped in

darkness, the warmth of my comforter, and blissful silence—until I thought I heard a whisper. You're drifting

back to sleep my brain told me. But the whisper persisted.

"Hey," it beckoned. I fought to open my eyelids but clearly they had small stones hanging from them.

"Hey", it breathed again, "we're listening." From somewhere inside my throat I managed a winded "To

what?"

"To you."

"No one listens to me. Who are you?" I was making a foggy mental note to add this entity to the list of

wasteful things I would annihilate as I lay in bed tonight.

"She listens."

"Are you going to tell me God is a She? I need to sleep." I tried my drowsy best to be dismissive.

"No," it said calmly. We answer to God." Half asleep or half awake, I wasn't sure. But I was forming

thoughts and speaking, if only quietly as we sometimes do in dreams. But this was something altogether

different, surreal but peaceful. "You know where God is," the voice asserted. I felt a soft pressure upon my

left pectoral. "In here. We answer to God. We answer to you."

Ego jolted upright, then warily slumped backward whispering in my other ear "Heyyyyy, wait a minute . . ."

I used the same tactic I use when having night terrors, doing my best impression of a rock on level ground,

motionless, lifeless. Sometimes the vision abates and the subconscious heads off to better pastures.

Apparently not this time.

"We listen, and She listens," came the serene refrain.

"Who is She . . . and who are you?" I asked.

"She is the one you talk to us about."

If this was a dream I was going to force my subconscious to provide something of substance. "Would She

approve of you being here?"

"Would you approve of Her being here?" the warm voice asked.

"Certainly. But you didn't answer the question." I don't know how, but I could sense a wry smile from the

voice. "Then we are all in agreement" it stated. "We like hearing about Her."

"I don't know who 'we' are."

"We," it said smoothly, "are your angels. You often refer to us as your 'better angels'—we like that, too."

So, not only were they listening but also . . . sensing? Surely they couldn't read, but perhaps attuned to

emotional or psychological states.

I rolled over onto my back. Why won't my eyes open? "Well, I'd much rather have you around than the

other guys," I offered weakly.

"You are at peace tonight," it said. "You talked to her today."

"Yes."

"We couldn't help but notice your lightness."

"My lightness?"

"We cannot fully explain for you wouldn't completely understand."

"Try me." There was a lengthy pause. For a moment I was afraid I had slipped the threads of whatever state

I was in, another clumsy dream left dangling in the abyss.
"An unimaginable but beautiful ferocity." The voice took on a lilt of passion, of some kind of untouchable

grace.

"I'm not awake enough to unpack that."

"No need," it said. "It wouldn't make sense to you anyhow." I felt a little defeated.

"She is very special to you, isn't She?" I breathed deeply, perhaps accepting that I needed to simply go with

whatever this was and not fight it. "Yes, She is."

"Tell us what it is about Her that kindles you?" My spider-web brain seemed to trap 'kindle' and the word

shimmered like a web in the morning dew.

"She makes me smile, makes me laugh." I could feel an involuntary smile grow. "I love to hear Her laugh."

"You understand each other."

"I think so, yes."

"Have you heard Her heart?"

"A few times. It's scarred and bruised, but truly beautiful to me."

"You've never searched for beauty in perfection," it said matter-of-factly. "It doesn't suit you."

"No, it doesn't."

"And yet . . ."

"Yet?"

"Yet you find a kind of wondrous perfection in Her."

I paused to let the words settle. "I do. Yes." "Although," I added hastily, "I don't believe in perfection, per

se."

"We know."

"There's just something about Her, despite all Her self-professed flaws," I paused. pensive. "Despite mine as

well." I sighed. The voice prodded knowingly.

"In French?"

I felt startled at the linguistic reference, but the words flowed easily nonetheless. "Je nais se quoi." There it

was again—I could feel a smile.

"You once called Her your 'continuum of beguilement, an unending intrigue'."

"How could you know that?" I asked, feeling my voice rise.

"Because you read it aloud so we could hear it."

"Oh . . . that's right."

"I told you we were listening." I nodded, although not sure if it was a physical or metaphysical nod.

Darkness remained my cloak, the silence only barely broken. I grasped at the questions that flowed but like

a stream they slipped through my fingers, until I caught one, if only by my fingertips.

"Do you know Her angels?"

"My dear boy, we are all connected, on only the highest and strongest level."
"But I wouldn't understand . . ."

"No. You wouldn't. It is nothing to feel shame about," it said assuringly. "It simply is not within your physical

ability to fully comprehend."

"Of course it isn't." Again, that sensation of defeat.

"You have spoken about Her beauty many times."

"I have. But never in singular terms."

"How so?"

"I thought you were listening?"

"We don't fully appreciate beauty in the physical sense."

"There's something I understand that you don't?" I couldn't help but feel a tad superior, surely a weakness

which would somehow be my undoing.

"Indeed. But we are not about learning so much as teaching."

"I suppose that makes sense, to the degree it can."

"Now you're getting it. Now, you were saying, about Her beauty?"

"Yes. Her outward beauty is self-evident, and, as if you didn't already know, a delight for the senses." I

halted a moment, waiting for some sort of spiritual admonishment. "But Her inner beauty—that is the pearl

among grains of sand, that is what thrills and tugs, beckons and bewitches. It radiates from Her, it's in Her

eyes. It's captivating."

"We know you are speaking from your heart because we can feel your energy. You genuinely love Her for

Her."

"Now you're getting it," I remarked. I don't recall hearing a laugh, but if angels laugh surely shadows cry.

"About Her angels," I began.

"Yes?"

"If you could—if at all possible . . ." I paused, searching for the right words, "I submit my deepest yet

heartfelt request for their intercession on Her behalf, to help alleviate Her suffering. She means the world to

me and it breaks my heart knowing I can do precious little to help Her." I felt that smile again, with an odd

sensation of warmth.

"Compassion. That is something we understand."

"I thought you might." There was another lengthy pause, long enough that I thought perhaps the entity had

departed. I somehow felt incomplete.

"Do not worry," the voice said, "we are still here. We have heard your request and are eager to help. We

promise to do whatever we possibly can for Her . . . and you." The angel continued, "Do you understand

why we came to be here with you tonight?"

The question careened around my sense of being, Here was an angel, one of several I could only assume,

asking a flesh and blood being to deduce a matter of substantiation. "I, uh, can't say I do" I answered

honestly.

"Matters of joy. You were considering memories that elicited feelings of warmth and internal affection."
"Yes, I . . . wait, you can read thoughts?" Surely I was bound for Hell now.

"Please, do not worry over it. You might say we sense what you are feeling." Phew! Crisis averted—maybe?

Once more, I felt that gentle prod upon my chest. "She brings you joy. Do you see the connection now? We

are here if only to remind you to embrace joy when it comes."

"She does, yes. All the time. Just Her presence, even Her voice, can do that."

"We know. You've told us."

"I know, you're listening." Once more, that seeming cotton candy smile.

Suddenly I felt groggy again, but with it came a spike of introspection. "I have been fortunate to navigate

her river, to find her island, and She has sung to me Her siren song so that now I never wish to leave."

"She remembers."

"What?"

"She remembers what you told Her—that you would never abandon Her."

"Good."

"Another question," it asked. "Is there anything about Her you would change if you could?" There was no

hesitation in my reply.

"Nothing," I said firmly. "To do so would alter Her and then She would be a different person than the one I

know and have come to love."

"You are wise," the voice said.

"Only in the quietest moments," I replied. "She makes me a better man," I blurted.

"Then perhaps She is your everyday angel, the kind without wings."

"I guarantee you She would not agree."

"It does not matter that She agrees or not, only what She is."

"Wish me luck trying to convince Her of that."

"Luck has nothing to do," it said. "It is plain to us that She is one because sometimes angels are ordinary

people who help us believe in magic again. We hear that magic in your voice when you talk about Her."

In the few brief moments after I awoke I recalled the bus trips and moon boots, the old backpack and

barefoot summers. Then I heard your voice saying "Shut the fuck up, Dan. No one was talking to you," and I

laughed aloud, for you have anointed me with the belief in magic again. You may not have wings, but to this

simple man you are a bracing, beautiful angel.

12

I

f ever a delightful, heartwarming sentiment could fill one to overflowing with light then Denise's text to

me in the wee hours of New Years morning 2020 was a concrete example of one:

"I love you, you know!" Truly doesn't get much better than that. Every other living soul can have their

trinkets and baubles, their beefy bank accounts, fancy house, and anything else their heart desires. All my

heart desired was in five simple yet life giving words. That's all I ever wanted, Bella.

13

I

n early January she finally reached the limits of her own fortitude. She had gone to too many doctor

appointments with even the slightest hope of some answer, just a shred of insight would have helped,

but no one seemed to give a damn. They'd send her away telling her to come back in two weeks for a

follow up, and the follow up was always the same.

On yet another visit to Dr. No-Bedside-Manner Denise finally summoned the energy to stand her ground

and had to fight for a referral to a pain management clinic. From what she described to me it took some

doing, flat out refusing to leave the doctor's office until she gave her a referral "since she clearly refused

to do anything more to help."

Over two and a half months of excruciating, unrelenting pain and suffering had elapsed. I felt that if

anything might soon kill her it might be the combined effects of all her pain, apparently something which

the medical community had little interest in further investigating. Wouldn't surprise me if money was the

reason. But on her first visit to the pain management clinic the doctor gave her a medication to try for the

pain . . . and it worked. Her pain very quickly dissipated and within a few days she began doing physical

therapy. Almost immediately her quality of life improved and she was starting to feel moderately better—

not great or even good, but markedly better than before.

Also in that early part of January we had a nice, long conversation during this phase of her apparent

improving health. Her disposition was clearly better, not to say she was (at least to me) lacking in kindness

or graces, but her demeanor was clearly trending to the positive side of the spectrum. Both of us were

thrilled, none moreso than her. At the end of that conversation I reminded her of the piece I had sent her

weeks earlier but she had yet to read, Conversation With An Angel. I sent her a quick text reminding her

of it, hoping she'd read it while she was feeling better.

14

The gray clouds seemed to be parting, finally.

At the outset of America's Revolutionary War Thomas Paine wrote in his influential pamphlet Common

Sense "We have it in our power to begin the world over again." Denise's struggles were nothing short of

her own personal war between an insurgent physical body and the dogged will of her mind and spirit.

Now, after so much misery and anguish she was, carefully yet hopefully, tiptoeing toward a speck of light

in what had been a very dark tunnel. It felt to me, as I'm sure it must have to her, like she might just get

the chance to begin her world over again.

On January 11, 2020 we finally got to see one another after our long, if wholly involuntary, detachment. I

won't detail everything here because I write at length about it in a separate piece to come, Coming

Home/You Are The One. Suffice to say that day is indelibly etched in my heart and soul, as I'm sure it is

beautifully etched in her essence as well. I knew with absolute, unreserved certainty we were standing on

the brink of a new, expansive, welcoming horizon, one which would include my soon-to-come proposal of

marriage.

When I dropped her back at her house that afternoon we had already planned to get together again the

next weekend. As she exited my truck, she leaned in for one last, beautiful kiss, then reminded me (as if it

were necessary) "You can come get me again next Saturday if you want."

"You know I'll be here!" I beamed.

I backed out of her driveway and watched her enter her front door, then disappear inside. I didn't want to

let her go, every fiber of my body was alight and humming. But she was genuinely tired. She was by no

means out of the woods yet, and I could easily sense she needed to rest. I had the next weekend to look

forward to, or so I clung to for a couple precious hours before I got the call I had to go to Utah for a

week. It was a brutal punch in the gut, but I had little choice, I had to go. She would be here when I got

back. I had to console myself with that frail thought for the week to come.

15

I

knew Valentine's Day was approaching, and while I'm not much for the brazen retailing of that and

other holidays I am appreciative of the intent behind it. I had a feeling I wanted to do something special

for this woman. Writing something else for her wasn't going to cut it, not for me. She would have

appreciated it but I felt I wanted to do something more substantive, something on the practical yet

personal side.

Once again intuition struck. I had an impression of a box, one large enough to contain her Jeff File of all

the emails and letters I'd sent her over the years. I have worked with scrap wood and old shipping pallets

for a while and enjoy the rustic, earthy results they bring. As I began mentally making notes about size

and construction another question intruded:

Are you sure you have time?

I paused a moment. It was middle of January, and Valentine's Day wasn't until mid-February. So long as I

started when I got home I figured I would have plenty of time.

Are you sure you can complete it in time? The tone this time was slightly darker and insistent.

I shook it off as being a matter of my internal logic trying to affirm my ability to complete the project and

have it to Denise on or before the holiday. I was confident I could.

Denise and I remained in close contact although it seemed difficult to reach her because she was busier

now, likely trying to catch up on all the things she hadn't been able to do for so long, as well as still going

to physical therapy to exercise her legs. On a Wednesday evening I tried calling her but got no answer.

She texted back a little while later.

She never did call me that night, but she did text me the next morning . . .

When I talked to her later we both were pretty sure she probably pushed it too hard because she'd been

feeling better. Then she told me the medication she was taking for the leg pain had the potential side

effect of causing low blood pressure. Something disquieting stirred inside me.

16

H

aunted. That's the word. That's the sensation I had after her text. I learned later that day she broke

her right foot when she fell. The last text received from her on Friday was they were wheeling her

down the hall to get an echocardiogram done.

Saturday morning I was returning to Phoenix. As I sat on the plane waiting to leave I texted her asking if

she wanted some company when I got home. She wrote back "I'll call you later. I'm putting Bella down."

Bella was her old St. Bernard; she'd had hip dysplasia for quite a while and the time had finally come to

put her out of her misery. Denise loved animals, and as could be expected she took this hard. Bad

enough she had been in the hospital again, but now she had to come back home to this tragic necessity.

She was told her heart functionality was up to 35%, not fantastic but orders of magnitude better than it

was in September. Even news like that couldn't cut through the pain in her right leg and the loss of her

beloved pet.

I didn't hear from her for three solid days. I tried texting and calling, but no reply. This was unusual

because she most always replied with something after a day or so. That following Wednesday, January

22, I was at work, restless, with a nagging feeling that I needed to go check on her. The intuition built

stronger and by about 10am I was in my vehicle and on my way to her house, unannounced.

When I arrived I knocked on the front door—her two other dogs were going ballistic inside. Surely that

would wake anyone up. No answer. I waited a couple minutes and rang the doorbell, again the dogs

went crazy but still no answer. I tried knocking again and the same refrain from the dogs . . . and still no

answer. At 10:57am I sent her a text hoping, praying she would respond: "If you're home I'm at your front

door." I waited a couple minutes—still no response. I slowly began to back away from the front door,

unsure if she was there or not, although I was pretty certain she didn't have any appointments that early.

At 11:05am she finally responded:

She called me a minute later. I can still hear the pain in her voice, the depth of her agony. She was

hurting, and badly. She tried to get up out of bed to let me in but fell, and I could hear her crying in

frustration and pain. I was desperate to get in, somehow, anyhow. I wanted, no needed to get inside and

help her up. I really didn't like the idea of breaking a window, but if she couldn't get up I sure as hell

would have. Bless her heart, she finally managed to grab her walker and amble, painfully, to her back

door which she unlocked then returned to her bedroom.

I had come in her back gate to get to the back door and in my emotional haste to get to her stepped in a

fairly fresh pile of dog feces. Between my bouts of cursing she had to tell me twice (we were still on the

phone) about the hose at the end of her porch. Shoe finally clean, I hustled back to her bedroom. She

was lying in bed, not so much the stoic, strong woman I admired as much as a tangled knot of raw

emotion, physical pain, and depression.

I offered to get her anything she may need, but she only wanted some tissue so she could blow her nose.

I sat down on the bed next to her and held her—as soon as her arms came around me she started

sobbing into my shoulder. The first thing that came to mind is probably what everyone thinks of in such a

situation: "It's okay, it's okay." But I knew damn well it wasn't, otherwise she wouldn't have been crying.

All I could do was be there for her.

"I can't take this anymore," she cried. "I'm in so much pain. My leg is killing me, I feel like crap, I'm

depressed 'cause I can't do anything but sleep." She grabbed me again and cried into me. Whatever

love I could send her, whatever meager sense of comfort I could project I did my damndest to do.

Three times she wept openly but kept her hold on me. When she finally drew back she said "I got your

nice shirt all dirty." Everything she was feeling and she was concerned about my shirt.

"No biggie. I'll wash it," I replied.

I held her for another couple minutes and then she laid on her left side, her back to me. I followed suit

and lay against her back and carefully draped my right arm over her side. She took my hand and tucked it

under her so I was cuddling against her completely. It brought me indescribable joy in such a dark place

to be able to make her feel comfortable and secure enough to hold me against her like that.

Within about a half hour she seemed to be feeling strong enough to get up, so I went out and got some

lunch and brought it back. We sat and chatted while we ate. God how I loved her company, just being in

her presence. She had a doctor appointment that afternoon so I left when her roommate came home and

took her (she wouldn't let me take her... yet. I was set to take her to her next new cardiac specialist

appointment in a couple weeks).

Later that evening she texted me . . .

I had no way of knowing that would be the last time I would see her alive.

We had further conversations, of course. I was even set to come up and clean her house for her the next

week, but other circumstances arose which prevented me from doing so, not the least of which was yet

another trip to the hospital.

17

February 1, 2020—Denise sent me this text . . .

She seemed to be doing so much better, until that night she fell and broke her foot. I didn't like the

feeling I was getting. I have always been one to cling to Hope, even when it seemed pointless to do so,

but this time Hope seemed to be staring at me in the rearview mirror. She did text me later . . .

The next day we had spoken twice in the morning. She was still at Thunderbird hospital at the time but

they were getting ready to transfer her to Good Samaritan in the heart of Phoenix. I texted her that

afternoon . . .

A little over an hour later she sent me . . .

She did call a couple hours later. We talked for just over a half hour. She told me she couldn't talk much

because she was having trouble breathing which was only adding to her anxiousness. They gave her

Ativan to help calm her. That night, on that call, I finally told her I'd been in love with her for years. She

didn't say much, because she couldn't, but I could truly hear her smile.

18

D

uring the previous night's conversation, just before we ended the call, she told me she would text

me in the morning to let me know when I could come see her—and she did. . . .

I won't detail the events of that morning because they're not germane to the spirit of this document. I will

say, however, that I got to her room only minutes late. I was told her blood pressure had dropped so they

had just transferred her up to cardiac ICU to more closely monitor her. Within 45 minutes she was with her

angels.

That morning I actually felt my heart splinter then shatter. I never got to hear her voice again. I did get to

spend a solid amount of time with her before her daughter and others arrived. That tragic morning was

brutal for all who cared for her. But is Death ever kind?

In her case it was, actually. Even had they managed to resuscitate her she likely would not have lasted too

much longer, days perhaps, maybe a week or so. She would not have wanted to lay in a coma or be

tethered to a ventilator just so she might 'be alive'. In this case Death's kiss was one of kindness. She

didn't suffer, she had done enough of that already.

I took her right hand and gently placed it upon my left chest then told her "This has long been yours, and

it always will be." I then made her a solemn promise, that I would do whatever it took to learn how to

remain in contact with her. I promised her I would never abandon her, and even as I write this I maintain

that promise.

In the aftermath of her loss I have awakened. Her departure broke my heart but it also elevated it; even

today it ascends laced with a never ending thread of love for my beloved Bella Dea.

19

I

returned home that morning, still stunned, numb, and a broken man. I knew I needed to share my

feelings, soiled as they were, with those who may care to know. I am rarely ever on Facebook but this

seemed like a proper occasion to notify those who know me about a seismic event in my life. What

follows isn't my best, but it was the best I could muster at the time I wrote it, just hours after my love

passed away—more succinctly, after her physical self died. I know for a fact her essence lives on. I have

felt it, I have sensed it, I absolutely know she is with me. So I hope she can cut me some slack for my

attempt at a Facebook post.

This morning I was both blessed and cursed to be present as the woman I long referred to

as my Bella Dea and my Abigail Adams passed away from complications due to sepsis and

heart issues. My heart trembles and aches, it weeps, aspiring to wash itself of its sorrows

and restore Hope.

Denise ***** had long been my constant in a world invariably buzzing with all manner of

negativity. She listened when I needed an ear. She brought me laughter, she shared with

me her amazing intelligence and taught me things about myself I hadn't known, and along

the way made me a better man.

She raised her daughter Alicia largely by herself, and her daughter is every bit her mother.

Denise left this world a better place than when she came into it.

As these events do, losing her has shaken my foundation and rattled my Faith. It is, of

course, inevitable that we will lose those close to us—Mortality never loses. It is for us who

remain behind to cherish and honor that which enriched us while they were present.

I am now adrift, no longer anchored by my precious constant. I know I will find harbor

again, I always seem to. But she will forever be gently threaded around my heart, a

perpetual reminder of what beauty life can bring. I am hopeful that she, too, will sit amongst

my Better Angels and watch over me.

My sweet, dear Bella Dea . . . until my last breath I shall always remember your sweet voice

and warm laughter. As I always have, I shall paint your legacy with honesty and genuine

respect, with ceaseless closeness and love, and will keep my promise to help your daughter

in whatever way I can, in your beloved name.

Your suffering is over, now your eternal peace may begin. God speed, dearest Denise. For

the moment you leave me with bottomless sorrow, but you will, as you always have, find a

way to heal me. I loved you then, I love you now, and Providence will need to extract my

last breath before my flame for you snuffs out.

I am with you always in Spirit; please, Bella, be in Spirit with me.

Love Always,

Me

20

"Goodbyes are only for those who love with their eyes, because for those who love with heart and

soul there is no separation."

~13th Century Persian poet and Sufi mystic, Rumi

F

or many years I might have understood that quote on the surface, would have comprehended it. But

now, as I continue to learn more about my own spirituality, I can appreciate its meaning on a much

more lucid level. Humans, physical beings, rely on their eyes to navigate their environments. We assess

and process visual data amazingly fast, but we only see what the brain wants us to see. The greater

picture is not seen with the eyes but experienced with the senses. Can you see love? Not in the

conventional manner—but you surely can feel it, right?

This quote speaks to my earlier words about knowing Denise is with me, and conversely, I am with her.

She epitomized my personal definition of love. Of course I loved how she looked, I thought she was one

of God's most beautiful creatures. But her outer charms were not love in the same sense, they were the

physical manifestations of what we perceive as external beauty. Her heart and soul, her very energy,

always seemed to resonate in the most wonderful and affective of ways when I was in her presence. I fell

in love with her, her very essence . . . the interior Nature of what made her Denise.

Denise's 'presence' was undoubtedly her energy, and that's what I felt when I was with her. I always felt

comfortable with her. In case you hadn't noticed earlier, being with Denise was so very much like coming

home for me. It was natural, warm, healing, and nothing else in the world mattered but her. We resonated

together in the most felicitous manner—again, it was her Nature that beguiled and bewitched me, her

Nature that drew me and allowed me to finally appreciate, in beautiful totality, love's blossom.

"But how could that be possible?" you might ask. "We are flesh and blood creatures. We can't be energy,

we have mass and weight. We can touch and smell and see and hear. We're not energy, We can't be!"

Anyone who denies we are comprised of biological cells is an idiot, pure and simple. Of course we are.

But scaled down much further those same cells are comprised of atoms. The entire universe itself is, at its

very foundation, built of atoms. If you have watched Cosmos then you are aware of Carl Sagan's famous

line "we are star stuff". Everything in our material world is star stuff; and consider this . . . everything

immaterial, our very essence included, is star stuff. I'm certain that sentence alone alienated some who

have read this far. But a rational mind will at least consider it.

For the sake of clarity "star stuff" is to be understood as all the elements we find in life around us: iron,

nickel, copper, magnesium, phosphorus, lead, silver, hydrogen, helium, etc., and of course, carbon. Every

element we know of (and surely some yet to be discovered) are created within the stars—like our Sun—

and when they reach the end of their lifespans some explode and go supernova, which liberates many of

these elementary particles into the universe to, at some point, be cycled into use elsewhere, be it another

star, a gas nebula, or even life as we know it.

If everything is comprised of atoms—and I am 100% willing to bet my existence that it is—then our souls

themselves must be as well. Why? Aren't our souls 'ethereal'? We are beings of energy. Depending on

your level of consciousness or belief, we are truly creatures of light. Energy is not electricity; electricity is

the current created by the flow of free electrons, negatively charged particles stripped from their parent

atoms. Energy is the by-product of atomic motion—more specifically the state or condition of electrons 
moving around an atom's nucleus, changing orbital state around the nucleus, or jumping to another

atom. If we accept that we are indeed energy (our 'souls' that is) then it logically follows that our souls,

too, are constructed of atoms, very energetic atoms to be sure. That's not to say we are electrical, per se,

but even our biological systems depend on the flow of electricity within us to operate.

I'm sure the following analogy will come across as cheesy, perhaps close to sacrilegious to some, but

consider the definition of the Force from Star Wars. In A New Hope Obi Wan Kenobi tells Luke the Force

is "an energy field created by all living things. It surrounds us, penetrates us, and binds the galaxy

together." In The Empire Strikes Back, after Luke fails to raise his X-wing from the Dagoba swamp, Yoda

tells him the Force's "energy surrounds us, it binds us. Luminous beings are we, not this crude matter," he

says, touching Luke's shoulder. In principle this is directly analogous to the very same energy within us all.

That's not to say we all have 'the Force' with us, but we do, in a very real, very tangible sense have a spark

of the Creator within us, a small charge of the Divine if you will.

There are many, myself and Denise amongst them at one time, who are not quite sure what an afterlife

might be like, much less if one exists. And yet there is no way for us to scientifically know, to empirically

prove that it does or does not exist. Science allows us to neatly categorize things into tidy, structured

compartments of logic . . . but not all things. There are mysteries yet to solve, Dark Energy for instance.

Yet even with Dark Energy we still suspect there is something afoot—we just don't know yet. Millions of

people believe that God exists yet they can't prove it any more than someone else can prove He doesn't;

it is, to a degree, an extension of faith or sheer belief. But our convictions are most often based on our

internal knowing of something.

Let me take a small step back if I may to clarify a bit.

I'm not speaking toward religious beliefs. Religion is a system of structured communication, tradition,

ritual, and hierarchy. A belief is something held or espoused within the construct of that system. Consider

for a moment what today we call myths; we think of myths as stories, right? Tales of events and people

that never really existed or happened. Regarding the relationship between religion and myth, a myth can

only be a myth if you don't believe it, that is, if you stand outside it somehow, as we do today. However, if

you stand inside a myth, if you willingly turn over your beliefs to it, then it becomes something completely

different—it becomes divine truth.

So, again, I am not speaking in any fashion about religion or religious beliefs, I am speaking more

distinctly about setting aside learned habits or institutional structure and dogma and extending one's

intuition—one's own direct perception of truth. . .to rely upon what you feel, not what you've been told to

think or perceive.

If you genuinely feel that God exists then that's fine if it is, indeed, your own direct perception of truth. If

you only think (or believe) God exists because that's what you've been taught to believe then you must

truly consider the weight of that against what you truly feel. What does your higher intuition tell you?

For the record, I have long believed that 'God' is immanent, a force or energy or spirit dwelling resident

within each of us. I have long had a difficult time with the teaching of a transcendent or removed 'God'

that watched over all of us from the clouds. I like to refer to 'God' as being akin to our internal moral

compass, only much more powerful. Our moral compass rarely fails to tell us if something is right or

wrong; yes, we are taught from a very young age what's considered right or wrong, just or unjust, etc. But

I believe we instinctively know these things from birth, we just don't know how to vocalize them until later.

My intuition, my higher self, gives me every reason to know beyond any question that there is an afterlife,

to know without doubt that my dear Denise is there and waiting for me. I have experienced things since 
her physical passing that I have never in my life experienced. I have felt the unmistakable 'lip print' of a

kiss on my cheek as I lay in bed, have felt her cuddle up against me as I lay prior to sleep, have felt her

energy wrap itself around me in the dark, early morning hours in my living room. I know she is there, my

intuition and entire being instruct me so.

You may think I'm shading to the crazy side, a candidate for the lunatic fringe. I assure you that as I write

this I am every bit as sane as all those days and nights you read about earlier. I'm the same person who

joyfully texted back and forth with her and delighted in lengthy conversations with her, the same man

who got little butterflies every time his phone played her distinct ringtone. The only difference between

then and now is I am physically missing a beautiful part of me. It is certainly possible that by the time you

may be reading this I may, in fact, already be rejoined with her on the other side, in which case you can

be absolutely confident I am precisely where I am supposed to be.

You've come this far with me and I am grateful for your doing so. I understand your time is valuable. To

return to the quote that began this chapter . . . I did, of natural course, have to say goodbye to Denise in

the physical sense the day she passed over, the day she went home; my eyes had beheld and adored her

physical self. But as I explained above, I know we are not separated because I have—and still do—love

her with all my heart and soul, so I haven't said goodbye to her true Nature. As you will soon read my

ardor and commitment to her are as resolute as ever.

Intercession

I

lost two family members in 2015; one, my father, was unexpected; the second, my brother, was,

unfortunately, expected. Naturally, I loved them both. While our familial bonds weren't as ironclad as

some families there was by no means animosity or any manner of bad blood between any of us. We were

a family of fairly private people, my brother and I raised to be self-sufficient and, to a degree,

independent. My parents did a wonderful job preparing us for adult life, as we both indeed managed on

our own. We loved one another but weren't reliant on one another for daily support, if that makes sense.

At any time, at any moment necessary any one of us could depend on the support of another if asked. So

while I miss them both in my own way their passings were, for me, a matter of grieving fairly privately and

moving on. I knew both were undoubtedly in a better place. But I had spent years apart from them, in

some measure, so their departures didn't have the deep, daily impact one might expect; they were

irretrievably gone, yes, but not unloved.

My brother and I were raised Roman Catholic, and when we went off to college mom and dad didn't

persist in busting our chops to continue our religious practice—they trusted us enough to allow us to

make our own decisions regarding any pursuit of beliefs or otherwise. We both had the full-on Catholic

indoctrination, from baptism to first communion to confirmation. I can't speak for him but (sorry, mom)

the majority of all the ritual and tradition never soaked in much for me. I long had the feeling my

enlightenment, or spirituality, lay elsewhere . . . I just was never quite sure where.

I won't say I don't see value in the lessons it taught me, or the value of having a sense of community as it

were. It just wasn't me. For decades I let my religious upbringing go fallow, eventually pursuing an

amateur interest in learning about the historical Yeshua. Interestingly though, I never let go my belief in

angels. Odd, right? Something about them always felt right, felt true. Over the years I would talk to them

aloud (always in private), and years ago started trying to pay more attention to the gentle messages my

Higher Self would offer. I'd be surprised to learn I accepted more than 5% of them for many years, but it

was the one connection I felt I had to my spiritual self. As I have aged I have felt this connection become

warmer.

The impact of Denise's passing was not so much a mortar shell as it was a six-mile-wide asteroid. I knew I

could avail myself of a myriad of grief counseling opportunities but I also knew, from the moment the

hospital chaplain walked me back to her ICU room to watch the medical team try to resuscitate her that

the tried-and-true classic counseling approach wasn't going to breach my hull. I had read enough about it

when dad passed to know, despite the best of intentions, most grief counseling would involve, to some

extent, a reliance on some sort of religious, scriptural, or dogmatic infusion in an attempt to foster

comfort and peace; there is, of course, a heavy component of human psychology involved as well. That

helps some, perhaps many people. I knew it wasn't going to help me. Ironically, I could sense my angels

telling me that I needed something more personal, something closer to the 'source'.

Despite my shattered, weeping heart the morning she passed, I stood at her bedside, held her hand and

made her an audible promise to find some way to learn everything I could to remain in contact with her.

My vow to do so wasn't a temporary promise of lament but rather an authentic commitment which came

from my very core. I didn't know at that moment how I would do it, but something told me I would find

the way. That answer came in the very human form of Lauralee Green.

Intermediary

T

he first three to four days following Denise's passing I was a Gordian knot of sorrow, confusion,

tears, directionless, and roiling with questions begging for answers. I spoke to her daughter at length

two days after her mother's departure; her maturity, strength, and honesty helped to slightly dull Death's

scalpel. I took to reading all I could about the deceased, near-death experiences, guardian angels,

meditation, intentions, chakras, you name it. As I searched I started discovering information that really

spoke to me, and other stuff that was clearly intended to attract the more desperate and ill-equipped—I

was neither of those things, just hungry for information and hoping to find the salve that might help

soothe my seeping open wound.

Little by little I was exposed to information about mediums and psychics. Now, hang on a minute—I know

what some of you are thinking: scam artists, ambulance chasers, a sorry cadre of tricksters playing upon

the heartstrings of the mourning. Yes, there are some of those out there . . . but there are politicians too,

and we seem to keep re-electing them based on their promises of help yet they often prove just as

disappointing and unreliable, do they not?

In my hour of need, at a moment when I, somehow, let my intuition seep through, I was gently nudged to

search for someone local. Trust me, it said. I won't let you down, but you have to trust me. So I did. As I

searched I found a couple that seemed intriguing and fairly close, but that gentle whisper kept prodding

me along.

Then I happened upon Lauralee's Yelp page. How utterly incongruous, I know! Someone able to help with

something so esoteric yet so openly exposed via technology. For some strange reason it seemed a bit

odd, but I wasn't interested in oddities, I wanted to connect to the source of my grief, which truthfully was

myself. But its point of origination lay in a woman whom I lost in this world, and I wanted dearly to

explore the possibility of connecting to her as credibly as humanly possible—I sure couldn't do it yet, but 
I wanted to learn, to expose myself to at least the outside chance that it might be possible . . . Denise was

absolutely worth the effort, and then some.

I could have taken the common, even expected or traditional route: gone to grief counseling and

eventually closed that chapter and moved on. But every part of my heart and soul, every part of my

aching love refused to do so—I simply could not allow all my tender attachments to fall into neglect, my

very self just could not and flat out would not do it.

I had reached my Rubicon. I could stay behind it, on the opposite shore, and do what all 'normal' people

would do: bend to the unwritten policies of acceptable societal behavior and hammer through my

emotions with the weight of well-intended but hollow precepts heaped on my shoulders and, in all

likelihood, walk away with a heart filled with questions begging for answers. Or I could simply accept and

take action on what my Inner Truth was telling me—cross the Rubicon with courage and conviction and

do what I intuitively knew could be done . . . get my heart's questions heard by provenience.

A lifetime of relying on proof for direction loomed large; a moment of profound instinct met its gaze. In

the balance lay my soul.

With every breath I yearned for Denise. Every heart beat cried her name. When I stood beside her bed

and held her still warm hand I promised her and Providence I would learn to become closer to my true

nature as an entity of light so she could be with me always while I still drew mortal breath. I already had

my answer, I didn't need more—but my promise gave me the earthly proof the soft machine always

looked for.

In her wake I confidently took my first steps across the Rubicon. I contacted Lauralee to begin the journey

into my new, yet somehow familiar frontier.

21

In Her Wake . . .  . .

M

y decision to enlist Lauralee's services actually felt comfortable. My ego didn't like it, but I had

grown weary of listening to his bluster and scare tactics. I wasn't entirely sure what to expect but I

fully expected more than I would have if I chose the alternative. Ms. Green did not disappoint.

We did the session in person, my preference. If my spirit was beset and dense as a result of my grieving

then I wanted her to be able to sense it while in her presence. My intuition served me very well;. Lauralee

proved to be kind, warm, and an understanding guide. Without any description or pictures of Denise she

was able to discern details about her spot-on, the first time. She nailed some of her humor. I absolutely

felt she was truly helping bridge the veil between myself and my departed love.

Unconventional? Yes. But it proved to be the absolute best decision I could have made. I have met with

Lauralee a number of times now and her help—and Denise's presence—has brought me a newfound

peace and understanding. It has also provided answers, affirmations, and confirmations of questions I

have asked to both Lauralee and to Denise's daughter.

Case in point: during my first conversation with Alicia after her mother's passing I asked her what she felt

her mother would have said if I asked her to marry me, as I had planned on doing. Alicia's reply? "Oh, I

think she absolutely, 100% would have said yes." Her answer alone made my breath quicken and eyes

water. During our first reading I gave Lauralee the same question—she had no idea I had already queried

Alicia. "What would Denise have said had I asked her to marry me?" She closed her eyes for just a

second then opened them wide and smiled. "She's telling me "Yes! Yes!' She's very emphatic in her

response, but she keeps saying 'Yes!'"

Imagine a heart overflowing with restored joy. That was me in that moment.

The following pieces I wrote to share with Denise during my sessions with Lauralee. Denise always

seemed to enjoy what I wrote, but was also always honest when she felt it wasn't up to par. As you might

expect they are straining at the seams with my expressions of affection for her. I did not write them for an

audience, I wrote them for her, as simple as that. Not only can Lauralee sense, but I, too, can sense my

desire to remain closely bonded with her, and my persistent efforts at being receptive to her presence

have already brought precious fruit—our connection seems as strong as ever, perhaps moreso because

she no longer has all the distractions she had while here with us.

Where a particular piece warrants I have commented on it. Otherwise I hope you can understand and, in

your own way, appreciate both the sentiment and inspired emotion threaded into each one. I assure you

she has heard each of these, in some cases a number of times. I know when I am once again rejoined with

her (if I'm not already) I will continue to pour my heart into any kind of song and verse she desires if only

because of the powerful sincerity of my love for her.

My Benediction for Denise's Memorial

Every moment I was blessed to be with her was the emotional and soulful equivalent of the sun's rays

breaking through the clouds. She was the very expression of my heart, the very reason why I finally, truly

understood what love is.

Heaven is a spiritual construct, an Eden removed from the newly departed by degrees of grace. Heaven is

a state of limitless, unbridled peace and love, a perpetual embrace of the Divine; but not everyone who

passes is granted immediate entry—with certainty, myself included. But I know, because my heart tells

me, that the instant I cross over and see her again I will have entered my own Heaven, my personal,

ceaseless embrace of the Divine, for she was and ever shall be my Bella Dea, my bracing, beautiful angel.

Many years ago I happened upon Mozart's classic Für Elise; even back then my brain converted it,

immediately, to For Denise. Not that the music has anything to do with her or any moment we shared,

just the play on words. So, when in Santorini my son and I stopped into one of the more unique gift shops

in the town of Oia (pronounced eye-ya). They had number of tiny music boxes which played different

tunes. There was one that had the Game of Thrones theme, but I seized upon the one that played Für

Elise—for obvious reasons. Turned out she had always loved that piece of music, and she absolutely

loved the tiny music box as well.

Für Elise (Intention For Denise)

We reflected, mirrored one another, each wordlessly yet resolutely needing the other—both strong, both

frail, both human in our silent but inviolable unity.

When my angels come for me I will welcome them eagerly because I will be coming home to you, hungry,

impatient, thirsty for your potent, eternal embrace. I wrote you that I had been fortunate to navigate your

river, to find your island, and you sang to me your Siren song so that I may never wish to leave . . . I never

did, I never will.

Now, as I get stronger at hearing, sensing, and seeing you, I submit my firm intention: I am opening up a

channel so you can send me information; if you tune me to your station I promise I'll receive.

In chapter 14 I made passing mention of this next piece. This was written to express my feelings about

that day we finally were face-to-face again after so much time and so much of her pain and suffering. I

told her a number of times that, to me, her voice was always like coming home, such was the èlan it

always seemed to bring when I heard it. That day, seeing her again, was a full-bodied expression of that

same sentiment . . . one thousand fold.

Coming Home/You Are The One

Saturday, January 11, 2020—Prior to this day months of conversations and texts had passed, including

many conversations (and a couple clips from you!) while I was in Europe. We had planned to get together

upon my return, to give you and Alicia all the goodies I'd brought back for you, and to come over to my

house and look again at all the pictures I sent you. When I initially left on vacation on Sept 16 you were

beginning to feel better, but about a week or so before my return your bouts with debilitating leg pain

began and by the time I got home you were in no condition to spend much time upright, much less come

over to my house. So I waited, and we continued talking and texting.

Finally, on that Saturday morning, I arrived at your house and sat chatting with Danny for about 15

minutes or so until the moment I laid eyes on you for the first time in over a year—relief, joy, and pent up

excitement erupted within me all at once. You appeared at the end of your hallway, stopping in front of

your washer/dryer closet; you were talking with Alicia who was in her bathroom. When you appeared my

immediate, emotional reaction was "OMG! There she is!" This woman whom I had missed more than

words could say, whom I had so longed to see again, stood about 20 feet away from me. The outside

world melted away and my internal focus locked upon you. You stood there talking to her for a couple of

minutes then turned and started toward me, your arms opening as you did so. The very moment you

came into my physical proximity I felt a door open; when I finally wrapped my arms around you, and felt

yours around me, instantaneously I knew I had come home—I hung in the air embraced by my One. We

cradled one another for perhaps 10 seconds but that brief amount of time dislodged the ache from my

heart and put the rest of the world on notice that they didn't matter. I experienced that deep sensation of

warmth, of security, of enveloping love . . . of blissful sanctuary. I was, indeed, home again with you.

When I close my eyes I see you—when I open them, I miss you.

In French tu me manques literally translates, in English, to 'I miss you', but in French it has a deeper

connotation, meaning you're missing from me, you're a part of me..

You have always been the wheat, not the chaff. You know I can be kind or thoughtful, expressive and

doting. But you also know me to be logical, rational, observant. To interpret you through a gauzy

romantic filter would be folly and would swindle me of the far better, profoundly worthwhile pursuit of

experiencing you as you were (and are now).

Your company, your presence, both I held precious but not out of some antiquated, fanciful notion, rather

from their true worth--your worth. You may see yourself as aluminum, but I see silver; you may see a

desert but I see shoreline.

I have long held you as my invaluable constant, my Northern Star. As I have many times before I most

solemnly and forthrightly inform you of your immeasurable, potent value.

On that Saturday morning I experienced rejuvenation. My heart sang, my soul simultaneously expanded

and ascended. I was where I was meant to be, where I am forever meant to be—in your presence. You are

now and will eternally be my One. I cannot wait to come home to you, this time forever.

Two Souls, One Element

All stars, including our Sun, exist due to nuclear fusion. Our Sun, at its core, is slowly converting hydrogen

into helium; the internal temperature (about 15 million degrees) is hot enough to allow hydrogen protons

to slam into one another and, instead of bouncing off or deflecting as they would at cooler temperatures,

they fuse into a new element—helium.

This admittedly geeky analogy is how I see our imminent reunion. Two souls brimming with joy because

the separation of worlds has finally dissolved; two souls come together and energetically fuse as one . . .

two souls become a new, harmonious, loving element. The timeless power of this beautiful fusion will be

nothing less than divinely inspired and created, allowing our entwined souls to spend eternity healing

one another and bringing our strength to those we hold dear—now as a singular, powerful 'element'.

Bella, If I may be so humanly arrogant to put a name to our impending fusion, I would call it "Pulchra

Elementum," Latin for beautiful element.

Below I make reference to Mondays being difficult; Denise left us on February 3, 2020 - a Monday

morning.

I Can't Imagine

I can't imagine a day in this realm without you . . .

I can't imagine, even in the weakest sense, not being receptive to you, to your ethereal presence, to your

touch, to your welcome and necessary intrusions . . .

I cannot fathom me without you.

I could never have imagined how difficult Mondays could be . . .

I could never have imagined meeting you, but clearly you were for my higher good, and here we are . . .

I could never have imagined being blessed to be the first to hold your hand after you'd passed, the first

to weep for my acute, bottomless loss . . .

I cannot fathom me without you.

I can't imagine my angels without you amongst them . . .

I can't imagine a more perfect union than ours . . .

I can't imagine my eternal soul in absentia of yours . . .

Soon, my dear Bella Dea, so very soon shall I take leave of my imagination—my heart will have no further

use for it, for I shall never again need to fathom me without you.

From God's Own Hand

One cannot measure beauty, but one can appreciate it. The degree to which it is appreciated will

naturally vary from one individual to the next, based either on prefabricated images of glamor or upon

the true intellect within. The former never seek true beauty, reliant on being fed what they should think it

is; the latter instinctively know beauty to exist and are able to sense its truth from within, not from

without.

I can dissect a rainbow and understand how it came to be—but I can also be in quiet awe of what it

simply is. In-between the objective and subjective lay the depth of genuine beauty, the Wisdom of the

Heart.

Your beauty has never been temporary—just because your physical self has ceased neither indicates nor

reveals an absence of your allure. On the contrary, it becomes ever more prominent, more commanding

in its potency.

I have always appreciated, long been happily captivated by both your internal and external beauties, my

affection for both anchored within my soul, firmly bound by unconditional warmth of attachment. Dante

wrote "Heat cannot be separated from fire, or beauty from the Eternal"; I truly understand this because I

know that in your beauty I have borne witness to God's handwriting.

CODA

Inexorable: (adj) Impossible to stop or prevent

I have not turned my back on science, rather I have become more aware of the need to seek deeper,

more satisfying answers from within to my most important questions, to try as feebly as my human self

can to separate shadow from light, mere like from true love. It is within this construct which I wrestle and

call upon the aid of my better angels for their silent guidance. Only upon my willing reception of their

support can I hope to crawl then walk, to transcend I think into I believe and finally coming home to rest

as I know. At each waypoint I am taken pause and placed ever closer to the shimmering spirit of my great

love, Denise, eternally my Bella Dea.

Everything she was, everything she revealed and became to me resonated at a level far above any typical

acquaintance. As I grew to know her she unwittingly inspired a new kind of faith in me, a distinct certitude

that love isn't simply a dreamy notion for the emotionally hapless, rather that love, in its own gentle yet

powerful way, effortlessly bridges the mortal chasm of 'I believe' into the promised conviction of 'I know'.

I had no way of knowing it when we first started talking nor the first time we met, but I will never be

persuaded otherwise that my falling in love with her was naturally inexorable.

Author's Note

If you have read this far then it would seem you have, at a minimum, an instinctive notion regarding my

connection to and love for my Bella Dea, Denise. I also suspect there may be those who have serious

fundamental disagreements with me or my expressed opinions—that's okay too. As I wrote at the outset,

we all have Free Will, and I am certainly not one to sit in judgement of another's opinion of me. I can only

be me, can only present myself as fully as possible within the spirit of this document, of 'our' story.

To express the completeness of my depth of love and caring for Denise truly escapes my meager ability

to deliver the proper words. I am, in many respects, a simple man. To have been graced with the gentle

power of genuine love in this life is a blessing I was compelled to document; not so much for myself,

because I lived it, but moreso for those who may choose to take up the challenge of, if only for a short

time, being in my static company and taking to heart my limited expression of a glorious endowment—

her love.

So, why go through all the effort of writing this, of exposing shards of my personal life for perpetuity? Did

I do it out of some misplaced need of approbation or is it perhaps a cry for attention? The answer to the

latter is a resounding "No." That idea can be immediately scuttled. To answer the first question takes a

little more care and carries with it a true gravitas of heart.

•For my son and her daughter, so they may each have a more personal understanding of the caring and

love that once breathed between us.

•To honor her, in the the best most affectionate and loving way I knew how.

•To leave a recorded document, in my own words and of my own mind, to bear testament to my

profound affliction of love for her.

•To let slip the fetters and chains of this physical world and its limitations, and once free of their bondage

to liberate the lighter and more divine of my Nature as proof that a love of ages can happen, can exist,

can be experienced in this lifetime . . . and remain connected into the next.

Oh, by the way, if you're wondering what became of my idea for the box project, I did build it. I had the

box itself constructed, trimmed and finished a week before she passed. I had the lid built as well but had

taken it into a shop to have an inscription laser-burned onto the face: All My Words for my Bella Dea. It

would have, I believe, held all 400+ pages of my emails and letters to her. The shop emailed me

requesting a couple small files for the lid . . . on the day she passed. So I never completed the lid, didn't

coat it with a finish or attach the hinges and clasp I'd bought for it.

I gave her daughter the finished box that bleak morning at the hospital; I had taken the box part to show

Denise when I visited her that morning. Of course she wasn't amused that I had been keeping the

surprise secret from her, so I thought I'd at least show her the box part and explain its purpose, then the

lid would be an additional surprise. Turned out she surprised us all.

Her daughter has the lid now, too. I asked her to please accept it in honor of her mom, which she has

done so with great respect and warmth. Thank you, Alicia.

I hope you now have a warm sense of my Bella Dea. Until I see you again, Denise . . . I love you.

J.W. Nicklaus ~ April 2020

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