Afterimage. It's the ghost image that continues to appear, even after the source has faded away. It’s different from having a flashbulb catch you unaware when you’re having your picture taken. That leaves you momentarily blinded, violet and yellow dots kaleidoscoping in front of you. An afterimage is subtler, but more persistent, more enduring, more beguiling. Especially the afterimage that imprints itself on your heart. The one that occurs when your husband has died.
As a generation, we declared ourselves forever young. We assumed it our life’s work to brand every stage of human experience with our own particular stamp. How did we get to widowhood so quickly? Too quickly — while we weren’t looking, while we were still busy trying to figure out how to be grown-ups.
AfterImage is, at its core, a love story, as all real stories of loss must be. It is a story not solely about grief. It’s about battling the before and surviving the after, and dabbling in madness along the way. It is about the small moments that constitute a life well-lived. It is in those moments of human connection that we can search for gratitude through grief.
AfterImage is a story of love more than loss, memory more than sorrow, life more than death. It is a personal story. It's my story.