Missing Parts

In 2000, the children and I went to France for almost seven weeks.  We lived in a 15th century building, on a farm owned by a young couple about our age and they, also, had three young children.  They had transformed this building into a bed and breakfast which stood about 30 yards from the main house. Michael and I had just bought a house in  Jackson in December of 1999, and had decided to do some major renovations.  We had always dreamed of going to Europe to live for an extended period of time so that the children could experience another culture and possibly  begin to learn the language.  We agreed that doing it while we were not able to live in the house would be a great idea, and it was.  The only drawback was that he could not be with me the whole time.  My mom flew over there with me, in order to help me in flight with the children, who were 2,4,and 8 at the time. (I wrote a book about this experience in France, but I have never published it.) My mom stayed for a week.  She will tell you one of the hardest things she has done, was to watch the children and I walk away from her at her hotel in Paris that night.  It was dark and late, and we still had an hour train ride then a 45 minute car drive back to the country home where we were living.  I was alone with the children until the final six days. Michael's fledgling architectural firm was less than two years old.  He was supposed to join me for the last two weeks, but he got short listed on huge project and the interview had been scheduled during that time.  It was an opportunity from which he could not walk away.  As soon as he completed the interview, he flew over to join me. Even though my visit there was a trip of a life time,  I battled depression the last week leading up to Michael's arrival.  I had been alone, away, and the strong one for too long.  I began to realize that he, too, felt the same emotions and for the same reasons.

Michael's "love language" was words of affirmation and mine is quality time.  Our "love tanks" were operating on fumes and were beginning to sputter. We literally had a hard time surviving without being near one another.  I began to sense a feeling of insecurity in his voice when we would talk on the phone.  He needed to know that he was still my Superman, that I needed him, missed him, and loved him.  Saying, " I love you", at the end of our phone conversations was not enough.  He always needed a bigger part of my heart than those three little words could convey.  After putting all of the children to bed one night, I wrote this poem while sitting alone in front of the fire.  I felt like he needed to read it as soon as possible to stir his strength back up to a higher level.  I emailed the poem to him from the main house, first thing the next morning. He immediately called me and was overwhelmed with emotion.  Through his tears, he thanked me profusely telling me it was exactly what he needed at that moment. He was strong again. This poem was printed inside the funeral service program to help serve as another glimpse into our hearts and the beautiful love we shared together.

Missing Parts

The distance between us has shown to serve,

The love in our hearts is stead and pure.

Though miles separated our bodies and touch,

Our hearts reach out... the emptiness too much.

I crave to feel your cheek next to mine,

To stand up against you with arms intertwined.

The space on your forehead where kisses often fall,

Is feeling forgotten as the days seem to crawl.

Your cheekbone, so smooth, as it touches my lips,

Is missing me, too, as it wakens amiss.

The curls on the back of your head wait... they linger,

In anticipation and longing for a tender, familiar finger.

Your eyes speak volumes when your heart is leaping,

They make me feel timid, yet loved beyond dreaming.

We are but one body - separation creates a void,

My hands without your hands cannot be employed.

My mind without your mind could never find peace,

My heart missing your heart... how sadly it beats.

When together, we are as one... the way God intended,

Each part fitting together, like a wound that is mended.

Our unity will be throughout all eternity,

Edifying one another like notes in harmony.

Written by Jene' Barranco

France, 2000