Alex Maskara
Thoughts, Stories, Imagination of Filipino American Alex Maskara
Welcome
~
In a world filled with uncertainty, perhaps the one certainty I continue to hold on to is the presence of God—and humanity’s desire to reach Him in so many different ways. I try to reach God through meditation, prayer, and the creative work that has always been part of my life. I believe that somewhere in every human heart is an imprint of God, something we instinctively try to reach, understand, imitate, and express. Perhaps that is partly where art comes from. Whether through painting, music, writing, or any other form of creativity, human beings keep trying to reproduce something beautiful, meaningful, and greater than themselves. We cannot seem to help ourselves. Maybe that desire has been planted deep within our spiritual DNA.
I have stopped posting frequently on social media lately. The primary reason is simple: I am busy. The secondary reason is that I don't have much I want to share publicly right now. There is very little art in posting simply for the sake of posting, and I have never wanted to become someone who feels obligated to produce content just to remain visible. At the same time, I don't want my sudden silence or disappearance to stir unnecessary curiosity or speculation among people who became accustomed to seeing whatever little piece of creativity I happened to share. Even when the posting stops, however, the artistic impulse remains.
To satisfy that craving for beauty—and perhaps my longing for something resembling God's perfection—I return to the art form I know best: writing. In a world that seems increasingly superficial, I still find myself wanting to explore the deeper chambers of the human heart and spirit. I don't do this out of responsibility or obligation. I do it because I love it. There is also a certain urgency behind it because so much contemporary media seems to be moving toward the surface of things. Creativity is increasingly measured by numbers: views, followers, likes, shares, engagement. Those numbers may measure attention, but they do not necessarily measure value.
Of course, this is not entirely new. The same distinctions existed in the past. Newspapers had serious journalism alongside sensationalism and tabloid junk. Literature has always offered everything from profound works of art to material with little lasting value. Radio and television were no different. There has always been thoughtful art and shallow entertainment, beauty and ugliness, substance and noise. Every generation simply encounters these choices through different forms of media.
Now we live in the computer age, and naturally it offers more choices than perhaps any generation before us could have imagined. As for me, creativity remains my way of reaching toward the beauty of God. I write stories that try, however imperfectly, to approach that threshold. I find the process itself beautiful.
That has become especially important to me now.
I am still recovering from the loss of Jim, and his death has set in motion enormous changes in my life. I am selling my home because I no longer believe I can—or even want to—manage everything here by myself. At the moment, I feel more comfortable hiding somewhat from the world of social media. I don't want to invite people's curiosity or speculation, and even worse, I don't want to present myself publicly as the grieving friend, adding performative layers of sadness simply to attract sympathy, attention, or drama. I have no desire for that.
But privately, I continue to create.
I sit down and write through my anguish, grief, confusion, and occasional moments of peace. I have recovered considerably from the initial shock, but grief still arrives unexpectedly. Sometimes it happens when I enter places where Jim used to linger—his room, the back door, the backyard. Sometimes I find myself thinking about Rocky and grieving that old loss as well. Sadness has a strange way of finding familiar doorways into the mind. It comes, stays for a while, and eventually leaves again.
So I write and meditate. They help stabilize me and keep sorrow from consuming every corner of my mind. But for now, I write without thinking about an audience other than God. Someday I may post some of these writings on my websites, where my identity doesn't matter and where I can write whatever I want—whatever drama, imagination, memory, grief, or emotion happens to come out. I can call the stories fiction, and most of them are. I don't give them too much importance, nor do I burden them with expectations. They are simply acts of creative self-expression, and right now, that is enough.
Eventually, I will probably return to my usual social media activities. But there is no hurry.
---
Meanwhile, ordinary life continues to demand my attention.
I finally got hold of Jim's ex-wife, Alicia, so she can retrieve the box of her belongings that I took out of storage. She was understandably shocked by the news of Jim's death. I remember that initial shock myself, but this time I managed to stay focused on the practical matter at hand. Interestingly, as I tell more people about his passing, I feel as though I am also distributing some of the grief. There is a strange comfort in that. The sorrow is no longer something I am carrying entirely by myself.
I have also secured the important documents I will need for traveling abroad. Thankfully, I didn't lose my Social Security card this time. My passport is valid until 2034, so I have plenty of time to use it for whatever travels may come during the next several years.
I attempted to restore my old ASUS laptop to its factory settings, but so far every attempt has failed. My next step is simply to remove my personal apps and data and leave the computer for Carl so he can use it. At this point, I don't need to make every little thing perfect. I simply need to keep moving forward.
My next major steps involve buying my plane ticket and selling my car to CarMax, with the proceeds going toward whatever balance remains on the loan. Getting rid of the car alone should eliminate roughly $600 from my monthly expenses between the payment and insurance. I have already eliminated another $200 by closing my storage unit. Eventually the utilities will disappear, grocery expenses will decline, the Internet service will go, and many of the subscriptions I accumulated over the years will also be canceled.
Apparently, I need to unsubscribe from many of these services individually. Another tedious little project—but also another source of savings.
Piece by piece, I am dismantling the machinery of my American household.
I believe everything will eventually work out for my good, even if the road getting there is painful. There is one complicated truth I have gradually allowed myself to acknowledge. After my sister died last year, I could have left then, but I didn't. One reason was Jim. I worried about what would happen to him if I left. His income was small, the cost of living in Florida had become extremely high, and I knew how precarious his life could be. I feared that if I simply walked away and something terrible happened to him afterward, I would have struggled with the guilt.
For six years, he had a stable place to live. Whatever his shortcomings and habits—cigarettes, beer, weed, and his sometimes questionable financial choices—he had a home. He had stability. He had someone around who cared what happened to him. I take some comfort in knowing that.
The deaths of my sister and Jim have also left me with another emotion that is difficult to admit because it can sound terrible when separated from its meaning: relief.
I am not relieved that they died. I would never wish that. I am relieved that I no longer have to carry the fear of what might happen to them if I were the one who disappeared first.
For years, part of me worried about my sister's future and how she would manage if her health deteriorated and I was no longer available. I worried about Jim for similar reasons. His circumstances were different, but the underlying fear was the same: *What happens to them if I am gone?* That question quietly followed me as I grew older.
Now that burden is gone, though I would gladly have carried it longer if it meant they were still here.
Back home, my siblings will also grow older. Their health may decline someday, and I may experience grief again. But they have families and much stronger support systems around them. I can participate in their lives without feeling that their survival depends on me. Perhaps that is one of the reasons returning home increasingly feels like the natural next chapter.
My prayer now is simply that the Lord will hasten the steps that remain. I pray that the house sells quickly and that the weather cooperates when it is finally time for me to fly home. Beyond that, I am trying not to demand too many answers at once.
In the meantime, I am taking care of myself. I am sleeping well. I am eating regularly and taking my medications on schedule. I am trying not to overdo the physical work. At first, I was intimidated by the sheer amount of junk, belongings, boxes, and accumulated pieces of life that had to be sorted, donated, thrown away, shipped, or given to someone. Yet somehow, most of it is already gone.
Today is another sorting day. The balikbayan box is ready to be shipped. Alicia will pick up her box. Carl will take the things from the house that he decided to keep. I have also adjusted my investment portfolio into a less aggressive mix because this is not the time in my life when I want unnecessary financial risk. With the significant reduction in my monthly expenses once I am back home, I may not need to touch my 401(k)s for a very long time. Hopefully, I can simply let those funds sit while I live a quieter and less expensive life.
That thought gives me some peace.
The next major practical step is selling the car and applying whatever I receive toward paying it off. Then comes the plane ticket. I may choose a flexible ticket because September can bring unpredictable storms, and with the house sale still unfolding, flexibility may be worth paying for.
The timing of everything now requires some thought. My realtor may begin showing the house to prospective buyers next week, which means the remaining belongings need to go soon—the bed, television, books, and whatever else is still here. I may keep only my bedding and a rubber mat so I have somewhere to sleep once the house is nearly empty. It will be strange, perhaps, to sleep on the floor of a house that once contained an entire life. But it will only be temporary.
Soon I should also begin disconnecting services one by one. Every cancellation will mean another expense disappearing, another obligation ending, another small cord connecting me to this house being cut.
Maybe that is what this period of my life is really about: not simply getting rid of possessions, but gradually releasing the things that once anchored me here.
I am grieving, certainly. But I am also moving.
There are moments when I look around and realize how much has disappeared in such a short period of time—people, plans, possessions, assumptions about my future. Yet beneath all of that uncertainty, I return to the thought with which I began: God remains.
And so I continue to reach for Him in the way I know best.
I meditate. I pray. I write.
Then I pack another box.
2026-08-25 14:16:21
blog
Right now, I need to recover from the shocking loss of my best friend, Jim.
For the first time, I think I truly understand people who have experienced this kind of loss—the death of a spouse, a family member, a best friend, a mentor, or simply someone whose presence had become woven into the ordinary fabric of daily life. In one sense, I was never dependent on Jim. Financially, I will be fine. Socially and practically, my circumstances will remain mostly the same. I can take care of myself, and I have done so for most of my adult life. But grief has very little to do with financial or practical dependency.
What I lost was presence. For the past six years, I had grown accustomed to knowing that Jim was simply there. He might be in another room of the house, doing his own thing while I did mine. We didn't have to constantly talk or entertain each other. There was comfort simply in knowing that another human being was nearby and available. Now that presence is gone, and that may be what I mourn most—the disappearance of something so ordinary that I barely noticed how important it had become.
I Have Lived Alone Before
The truth is that before Jim, I was accustomed to living alone. I did it for many, many years. There were exceptions. My sister Ruby and I lived together for about ten years. Joey stayed with me for around two years. And then there was Jim, who shared my home and my life for six years. But Jim's departure is different from all the others.
My separation from my sister was mutually understood, and she lived nearby. I could see her whenever I wanted. Joey's departure eventually came as a relief because living together had become difficult. In both cases, separation did not mean disappearance. The people were still somewhere in the world. Death is different.
This is the first time death has separated me from someone who had become part of my everyday home life. There was no gradual moving away, no goodbye at the door, no possibility of calling later or visiting next week. It feels like a sharp-edged knife suddenly cutting the connection between Jim and me. Yesterday he belonged to the world I knew. Today he does not. And that is terrible to comprehend.
The First Night
I was nearly hysterical after learning of Jim's death yesterday. I didn't sleep the entire night. Eventually, sometime in the early morning, exhaustion gave me perhaps two hours of sleep. Even now, I am badly sleep-deprived. I didn't feel like eating. Instead, I searched for things that might ease the pain, even temporarily.
I wrote. I wrote whatever came into my mind—memories, observations, questions, regrets, anger, logic, anything my brain could produce about Jim. Writing gave the grief somewhere to go. One minute I blamed him for his unhealthy lifestyle. The next minute I imagined completely different versions of the past. What if Jim and I had never crossed paths? What if I had not followed my compassionate instincts when our lives intersected? Perhaps I would have been spared this pain.
But that thought contains its own contradiction. To erase today's grief, I would also have to erase six years of companionship. I would have to erase all those ordinary days when simply knowing Jim was nearby gave me comfort. I cannot remove the painful ending without also removing the years that came before it. Perhaps grief is the price we eventually pay for having allowed another person to matter.
Old Ways and Older Wisdom
Last night, I was tempted to return to one of my old coping habits: getting into the car and driving around aimlessly, hoping movement and changing scenery would keep my brain from thinking about Jim. But it was already dark. I was exhausted and emotionally overwhelmed, and I knew that driving under those circumstances wasn't wise. Age, at least, has given me that much wisdom.
When I was younger, I might have searched desperately for someone, somewhere, or something that could distract me from emotional pain. But those old methods no longer fit the person I have become. So I turned to safer and quieter things. I meditated. I read. I listened to an audiobook. I watched videos. I spent more time than usual on social media and even updated some reels I had withheld from posting over the past few days. I spoke with my older sister and brother, and those conversations helped. Eventually, exhaustion took over and I slept for a little while—not much, but enough to get me through the night.
Getting Out Into the World
Today, I felt that I needed to move. Not necessarily to exhaust myself or somehow outrun the sadness, but simply to remind my body that life is still moving. I checked my blood sugar and blood pressure because I know stress can affect both. They were slightly elevated, but nothing alarming. The sky was cloudy when I stepped outside. I checked on my plants before getting into the car and driving to Starbucks. And now I am sitting here writing this journal entry.
Around me are mostly senior citizens absorbed in their conversations. I don't know them, and they don't know what happened to me yesterday. They are simply talking, drinking coffee, laughing, and going about their lives. Strangely, their presence comforts me. Maybe that is something I will do more often now—place myself among people without necessarily needing anything from them. I don't have to talk to anyone. Sometimes it is enough to hear voices, see people moving around, and be reminded that I am still part of the living world.
After my coffee, I may go to the park or the beach, but I don't want one of my strenuous walks today. I don't need to challenge myself physically to counter the heaviness emotionally. A gentle walk will be enough. Later, perhaps I'll visit the library. In the afternoon, I might go to the theater and watch *The Odyssey*. Small destinations, small activities, one hour followed by another. For now, that is enough.
I Don't Have to Perform My Grief
One thing I want to avoid is turning grief into a performance—even for myself. I don't have to prove how much Jim meant to me by suffering as dramatically or as long as possible. Neither do I need to pretend that everything is fine. There must be a middle ground where I can acknowledge the terrible reality of his absence while continuing to live.
One thought has been strangely helpful. Sometimes I imagine that Jim simply moved away, almost like a tenant who decided not to renew his lease. My mind knows that isn't what happened, of course, but emotionally the image makes his empty room a little easier to understand. He is simply no longer here.
There is also some comfort in knowing that his death was apparently quick. There was no prolonged period of suffering like the painful declines I witnessed with people I loved before him. There were no months of watching him slowly disappear. His departure was sudden, shocking, and cruel to those of us left behind, but perhaps mercifully brief for him. I can find some comfort in that.
Grief Has Its Own Schedule
I know from experience that the sharpest emotional pain eventually eases. But I also know I cannot command grief to disappear within a certain number of days. Maybe tomorrow will be easier. Maybe next week will be harder. A photograph, an empty room, a familiar sound, or an ordinary habit might suddenly bring everything back, and I will allow that to happen.
The goal isn't to erase Jim from my thoughts. The goal is to reach the point where remembering him no longer destroys the rest of the day. Eventually, my routines will return. But I don't want to return to the unhealthy coping habits of my youth. I want to rely on the quieter routines I have developed with age—writing, reading, walking, gardening, meditation, prayer, meaningful conversation, and simply allowing time to do what time does.
The daylight helps me. At night, when the house feels different and Jim's absence becomes more obvious, meditation and prayer can become my anchors.
Returning to a Life I Once Knew
Perhaps what is happening now is, in practical terms, a return to my old way of living: living alone. I have done it before. The difference is that six years with Jim changed what "alone" feels like. Before him, solitude was normal. After six years of companionship, solitude has to be learned again. And so I pray that God will become the safe anchor that Jim's physical presence provided in the house.
I also remind myself that I still have options. I have been thinking about visiting my old home, where there is an abundance of family and company. I am capable of making that trip, and I have the resources to do it. But before making major decisions, I need time.
There are practical matters here that eventually need my attention. I have two properties to manage. My condo is already producing rental income, and eventually I will have to decide what to do with the house. Perhaps I could continue an arrangement similar to what I had with Jim and have a paying roommate. Perhaps I could rent the entire house. Those decisions can wait until my mind is clearer.
The house itself will eventually need cleaning. There may be repairs. And then there are Jim's belongings. I tried to enter his room and begin cleaning today. I couldn't do it. The grief came rushing back, and I felt overwhelmed, so I stopped and walked away. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next week. There is no reason his room has to be emptied today. For now, the room can remain as it is.
For Today
That is where my mind is today. Yesterday, Jim was here. Today, I am learning what the house feels like without him. I don't know exactly how long this adjustment will take, and perhaps I don't need to know. I only need to get through this particular day without demanding too much from myself.
Drink my coffee. Sit among people. Take a gentle walk. Visit the library. Maybe watch a movie. Eat something. Rest when I can. Write when the sadness needs somewhere to go. Pray when words are no longer enough. These are small things, but perhaps small things are enough for today.
And when I return home, I will enter a house that feels painfully different from the house I knew only a few days ago. But it is still my home. My life is still here. Jim's chapter in it has ended in a way I never expected, but the six years he shared with me have not been erased by his death. They have simply become memories now, and that is something my heart has not yet learned how to accept.
Perhaps that is what grieving really is: the slow process of teaching the heart what the mind already knows.
Jim is gone. I am still here.
And for today, being here is enough.
Right now, I need to recover from the shocking loss of my best friend, Jim.
2026-08-07 21:09:38
shortstories
God and Art
In a world filled with uncertainty, perhaps the one certainty I continue to hold on to is the presence of God—and humanity’s desire to reach Him in so many different ways. I try to reach God through meditation, prayer, and the creative work that has always been part of my life. I believe that somewhere in every human heart is an imprint of God, something we instinctively try to reach, understand, imitate, and express. Perhaps that is partly where art comes from. Whether through painting, music, writing, or any other form of creativity, human beings keep trying to reproduce something beautiful, meaningful, and greater than themselves. We cannot seem to help ourselves. Maybe that desire has been planted deep within our spiritual DNA.
I have stopped posting frequently on social media lately. The primary reason is simple: I am busy. The secondary reason is that I don't have much I want to share publicly right now. There is very little art in posting simply for the sake of posting, and I have never wanted to become someone who feels obligated to produce content just to remain visible. At the same time, I don't want my sudden silence or disappearance to stir unnecessary curiosity or speculation among people who became accustomed to seeing whatever little piece of creativity I happened to share. Even when the posting stops, however, the artistic impulse remains.
To satisfy that craving for beauty—and perhaps my longing for something resembling God's perfection—I return to the art form I know best: writing. In a world that seems increasingly superficial, I still find myself wanting to explore the deeper chambers of the human heart and spirit. I don't do this out of responsibility or obligation. I do it because I love it. There is also a certain urgency behind it because so much contemporary media seems to be moving toward the surface of things. Creativity is increasingly measured by numbers: views, followers, likes, shares, engagement. Those numbers may measure attention, but they do not necessarily measure value.
Of course, this is not entirely new. The same distinctions existed in the past. Newspapers had serious journalism alongside sensationalism and tabloid junk. Literature has always offered everything from profound works of art to material with little lasting value. Radio and television were no different. There has always been thoughtful art and shallow entertainment, beauty and ugliness, substance and noise. Every generation simply encounters these choices through different forms of media.
Now we live in the computer age, and naturally it offers more choices than perhaps any generation before us could have imagined. As for me, creativity remains my way of reaching toward the beauty of God. I write stories that try, however imperfectly, to approach that threshold. I find the process itself beautiful.
That has become especially important to me now.
I am still recovering from the loss of Jim, and his death has set in motion enormous changes in my life. I am selling my home because I no longer believe I can—or even want to—manage everything here by myself. At the moment, I feel more comfortable hiding somewhat from the world of social media. I don't want to invite people's curiosity or speculation, and even worse, I don't want to present myself publicly as the grieving friend, adding performative layers of sadness simply to attract sympathy, attention, or drama. I have no desire for that.
But privately, I continue to create.
I sit down and write through my anguish, grief, confusion, and occasional moments of peace. I have recovered considerably from the initial shock, but grief still arrives unexpectedly. Sometimes it happens when I enter places where Jim used to linger—his room, the back door, the backyard. Sometimes I find myself thinking about Rocky and grieving that old loss as well. Sadness has a strange way of finding familiar doorways into the mind. It comes, stays for a while, and eventually leaves again.
So I write and meditate. They help stabilize me and keep sorrow from consuming every corner of my mind. But for now, I write without thinking about an audience other than God. Someday I may post some of these writings on my websites, where my identity doesn't matter and where I can write whatever I want—whatever drama, imagination, memory, grief, or emotion happens to come out. I can call the stories fiction, and most of them are. I don't give them too much importance, nor do I burden them with expectations. They are simply acts of creative self-expression, and right now, that is enough.
Eventually, I will probably return to my usual social media activities. But there is no hurry.
---
Meanwhile, ordinary life continues to demand my attention.
I finally got hold of Jim's ex-wife, Alicia, so she can retrieve the box of her belongings that I took out of storage. She was understandably shocked by the news of Jim's death. I remember that initial shock myself, but this time I managed to stay focused on the practical matter at hand. Interestingly, as I tell more people about his passing, I feel as though I am also distributing some of the grief. There is a strange comfort in that. The sorrow is no longer something I am carrying entirely by myself.
I have also secured the important documents I will need for traveling abroad. Thankfully, I didn't lose my Social Security card this time. My passport is valid until 2034, so I have plenty of time to use it for whatever travels may come during the next several years.
I attempted to restore my old ASUS laptop to its factory settings, but so far every attempt has failed. My next step is simply to remove my personal apps and data and leave the computer for Carl so he can use it. At this point, I don't need to make every little thing perfect. I simply need to keep moving forward.
My next major steps involve buying my plane ticket and selling my car to CarMax, with the proceeds going toward whatever balance remains on the loan. Getting rid of the car alone should eliminate roughly $600 from my monthly expenses between the payment and insurance. I have already eliminated another $200 by closing my storage unit. Eventually the utilities will disappear, grocery expenses will decline, the Internet service will go, and many of the subscriptions I accumulated over the years will also be canceled.
Apparently, I need to unsubscribe from many of these services individually. Another tedious little project—but also another source of savings.
Piece by piece, I am dismantling the machinery of my American household.
I believe everything will eventually work out for my good, even if the road getting there is painful. There is one complicated truth I have gradually allowed myself to acknowledge. After my sister died last year, I could have left then, but I didn't. One reason was Jim. I worried about what would happen to him if I left. His income was small, the cost of living in Florida had become extremely high, and I knew how precarious his life could be. I feared that if I simply walked away and something terrible happened to him afterward, I would have struggled with the guilt.
For six years, he had a stable place to live. Whatever his shortcomings and habits—cigarettes, beer, weed, and his sometimes questionable financial choices—he had a home. He had stability. He had someone around who cared what happened to him. I take some comfort in knowing that.
The deaths of my sister and Jim have also left me with another emotion that is difficult to admit because it can sound terrible when separated from its meaning: relief.
I am not relieved that they died. I would never wish that. I am relieved that I no longer have to carry the fear of what might happen to them if I were the one who disappeared first.
For years, part of me worried about my sister's future and how she would manage if her health deteriorated and I was no longer available. I worried about Jim for similar reasons. His circumstances were different, but the underlying fear was the same: *What happens to them if I am gone?* That question quietly followed me as I grew older.
Now that burden is gone, though I would gladly have carried it longer if it meant they were still here.
Back home, my siblings will also grow older. Their health may decline someday, and I may experience grief again. But they have families and much stronger support systems around them. I can participate in their lives without feeling that their survival depends on me. Perhaps that is one of the reasons returning home increasingly feels like the natural next chapter.
My prayer now is simply that the Lord will hasten the steps that remain. I pray that the house sells quickly and that the weather cooperates when it is finally time for me to fly home. Beyond that, I am trying not to demand too many answers at once.
In the meantime, I am taking care of myself. I am sleeping well. I am eating regularly and taking my medications on schedule. I am trying not to overdo the physical work. At first, I was intimidated by the sheer amount of junk, belongings, boxes, and accumulated pieces of life that had to be sorted, donated, thrown away, shipped, or given to someone. Yet somehow, most of it is already gone.
Today is another sorting day. The balikbayan box is ready to be shipped. Alicia will pick up her box. Carl will take the things from the house that he decided to keep. I have also adjusted my investment portfolio into a less aggressive mix because this is not the time in my life when I want unnecessary financial risk. With the significant reduction in my monthly expenses once I am back home, I may not need to touch my 401(k)s for a very long time. Hopefully, I can simply let those funds sit while I live a quieter and less expensive life.
That thought gives me some peace.
The next major practical step is selling the car and applying whatever I receive toward paying it off. Then comes the plane ticket. I may choose a flexible ticket because September can bring unpredictable storms, and with the house sale still unfolding, flexibility may be worth paying for.
The timing of everything now requires some thought. My realtor may begin showing the house to prospective buyers next week, which means the remaining belongings need to go soon—the bed, television, books, and whatever else is still here. I may keep only my bedding and a rubber mat so I have somewhere to sleep once the house is nearly empty. It will be strange, perhaps, to sleep on the floor of a house that once contained an entire life. But it will only be temporary.
Soon I should also begin disconnecting services one by one. Every cancellation will mean another expense disappearing, another obligation ending, another small cord connecting me to this house being cut.
Maybe that is what this period of my life is really about: not simply getting rid of possessions, but gradually releasing the things that once anchored me here.
I am grieving, certainly. But I am also moving.
There are moments when I look around and realize how much has disappeared in such a short period of time—people, plans, possessions, assumptions about my future. Yet beneath all of that uncertainty, I return to the thought with which I began: God remains.
And so I continue to reach for Him in the way I know best.
I meditate. I pray. I write.
Then I pack another box.
2026-08-25 14:16:21
blog
GRIEF: Learning to Live With Jim’s Absence
Right now, I need to recover from the shocking loss of my best friend, Jim.
For the first time, I think I truly understand people who have experienced this kind of loss—the death of a spouse, a family member, a best friend, a mentor, or simply someone whose presence had become woven into the ordinary fabric of daily life. In one sense, I was never dependent on Jim. Financially, I will be fine. Socially and practically, my circumstances will remain mostly the same. I can take care of myself, and I have done so for most of my adult life. But grief has very little to do with financial or practical dependency.
What I lost was presence. For the past six years, I had grown accustomed to knowing that Jim was simply there. He might be in another room of the house, doing his own thing while I did mine. We didn't have to constantly talk or entertain each other. There was comfort simply in knowing that another human being was nearby and available. Now that presence is gone, and that may be what I mourn most—the disappearance of something so ordinary that I barely noticed how important it had become.
I Have Lived Alone Before
The truth is that before Jim, I was accustomed to living alone. I did it for many, many years. There were exceptions. My sister Ruby and I lived together for about ten years. Joey stayed with me for around two years. And then there was Jim, who shared my home and my life for six years. But Jim's departure is different from all the others.
My separation from my sister was mutually understood, and she lived nearby. I could see her whenever I wanted. Joey's departure eventually came as a relief because living together had become difficult. In both cases, separation did not mean disappearance. The people were still somewhere in the world. Death is different.
This is the first time death has separated me from someone who had become part of my everyday home life. There was no gradual moving away, no goodbye at the door, no possibility of calling later or visiting next week. It feels like a sharp-edged knife suddenly cutting the connection between Jim and me. Yesterday he belonged to the world I knew. Today he does not. And that is terrible to comprehend.
The First Night
I was nearly hysterical after learning of Jim's death yesterday. I didn't sleep the entire night. Eventually, sometime in the early morning, exhaustion gave me perhaps two hours of sleep. Even now, I am badly sleep-deprived. I didn't feel like eating. Instead, I searched for things that might ease the pain, even temporarily.
I wrote. I wrote whatever came into my mind—memories, observations, questions, regrets, anger, logic, anything my brain could produce about Jim. Writing gave the grief somewhere to go. One minute I blamed him for his unhealthy lifestyle. The next minute I imagined completely different versions of the past. What if Jim and I had never crossed paths? What if I had not followed my compassionate instincts when our lives intersected? Perhaps I would have been spared this pain.
But that thought contains its own contradiction. To erase today's grief, I would also have to erase six years of companionship. I would have to erase all those ordinary days when simply knowing Jim was nearby gave me comfort. I cannot remove the painful ending without also removing the years that came before it. Perhaps grief is the price we eventually pay for having allowed another person to matter.
Old Ways and Older Wisdom
Last night, I was tempted to return to one of my old coping habits: getting into the car and driving around aimlessly, hoping movement and changing scenery would keep my brain from thinking about Jim. But it was already dark. I was exhausted and emotionally overwhelmed, and I knew that driving under those circumstances wasn't wise. Age, at least, has given me that much wisdom.
When I was younger, I might have searched desperately for someone, somewhere, or something that could distract me from emotional pain. But those old methods no longer fit the person I have become. So I turned to safer and quieter things. I meditated. I read. I listened to an audiobook. I watched videos. I spent more time than usual on social media and even updated some reels I had withheld from posting over the past few days. I spoke with my older sister and brother, and those conversations helped. Eventually, exhaustion took over and I slept for a little while—not much, but enough to get me through the night.
Getting Out Into the World
Today, I felt that I needed to move. Not necessarily to exhaust myself or somehow outrun the sadness, but simply to remind my body that life is still moving. I checked my blood sugar and blood pressure because I know stress can affect both. They were slightly elevated, but nothing alarming. The sky was cloudy when I stepped outside. I checked on my plants before getting into the car and driving to Starbucks. And now I am sitting here writing this journal entry.
Around me are mostly senior citizens absorbed in their conversations. I don't know them, and they don't know what happened to me yesterday. They are simply talking, drinking coffee, laughing, and going about their lives. Strangely, their presence comforts me. Maybe that is something I will do more often now—place myself among people without necessarily needing anything from them. I don't have to talk to anyone. Sometimes it is enough to hear voices, see people moving around, and be reminded that I am still part of the living world.
After my coffee, I may go to the park or the beach, but I don't want one of my strenuous walks today. I don't need to challenge myself physically to counter the heaviness emotionally. A gentle walk will be enough. Later, perhaps I'll visit the library. In the afternoon, I might go to the theater and watch *The Odyssey*. Small destinations, small activities, one hour followed by another. For now, that is enough.
I Don't Have to Perform My Grief
One thing I want to avoid is turning grief into a performance—even for myself. I don't have to prove how much Jim meant to me by suffering as dramatically or as long as possible. Neither do I need to pretend that everything is fine. There must be a middle ground where I can acknowledge the terrible reality of his absence while continuing to live.
One thought has been strangely helpful. Sometimes I imagine that Jim simply moved away, almost like a tenant who decided not to renew his lease. My mind knows that isn't what happened, of course, but emotionally the image makes his empty room a little easier to understand. He is simply no longer here.
There is also some comfort in knowing that his death was apparently quick. There was no prolonged period of suffering like the painful declines I witnessed with people I loved before him. There were no months of watching him slowly disappear. His departure was sudden, shocking, and cruel to those of us left behind, but perhaps mercifully brief for him. I can find some comfort in that.
Grief Has Its Own Schedule
I know from experience that the sharpest emotional pain eventually eases. But I also know I cannot command grief to disappear within a certain number of days. Maybe tomorrow will be easier. Maybe next week will be harder. A photograph, an empty room, a familiar sound, or an ordinary habit might suddenly bring everything back, and I will allow that to happen.
The goal isn't to erase Jim from my thoughts. The goal is to reach the point where remembering him no longer destroys the rest of the day. Eventually, my routines will return. But I don't want to return to the unhealthy coping habits of my youth. I want to rely on the quieter routines I have developed with age—writing, reading, walking, gardening, meditation, prayer, meaningful conversation, and simply allowing time to do what time does.
The daylight helps me. At night, when the house feels different and Jim's absence becomes more obvious, meditation and prayer can become my anchors.
Returning to a Life I Once Knew
Perhaps what is happening now is, in practical terms, a return to my old way of living: living alone. I have done it before. The difference is that six years with Jim changed what "alone" feels like. Before him, solitude was normal. After six years of companionship, solitude has to be learned again. And so I pray that God will become the safe anchor that Jim's physical presence provided in the house.
I also remind myself that I still have options. I have been thinking about visiting my old home, where there is an abundance of family and company. I am capable of making that trip, and I have the resources to do it. But before making major decisions, I need time.
There are practical matters here that eventually need my attention. I have two properties to manage. My condo is already producing rental income, and eventually I will have to decide what to do with the house. Perhaps I could continue an arrangement similar to what I had with Jim and have a paying roommate. Perhaps I could rent the entire house. Those decisions can wait until my mind is clearer.
The house itself will eventually need cleaning. There may be repairs. And then there are Jim's belongings. I tried to enter his room and begin cleaning today. I couldn't do it. The grief came rushing back, and I felt overwhelmed, so I stopped and walked away. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next week. There is no reason his room has to be emptied today. For now, the room can remain as it is.
For Today
That is where my mind is today. Yesterday, Jim was here. Today, I am learning what the house feels like without him. I don't know exactly how long this adjustment will take, and perhaps I don't need to know. I only need to get through this particular day without demanding too much from myself.
Drink my coffee. Sit among people. Take a gentle walk. Visit the library. Maybe watch a movie. Eat something. Rest when I can. Write when the sadness needs somewhere to go. Pray when words are no longer enough. These are small things, but perhaps small things are enough for today.
And when I return home, I will enter a house that feels painfully different from the house I knew only a few days ago. But it is still my home. My life is still here. Jim's chapter in it has ended in a way I never expected, but the six years he shared with me have not been erased by his death. They have simply become memories now, and that is something my heart has not yet learned how to accept.
Perhaps that is what grieving really is: the slow process of teaching the heart what the mind already knows.
Jim is gone. I am still here.
And for today, being here is enough.
Right now, I need to recover from the shocking loss of my best friend, Jim.
2026-08-07 21:09:38
shortstories