In my mind, there's the moment where I'll get a chance to say something. True, the moment may not happen, but somehow I doubt that -- if/when it does come, I've been running through my mind what I could say.
How does one talk about 12 years of knowing someone, in some ways more than anyone else? How do you reduce all of your feelings and passions about that person to a short little speech? Of course, I know the answer is "You can't"; the best I can hope to do is declare my love for this person, and in some small way commerorate everything she ever did for me.
When I got the word she had died, I was just beginning one of the most difficult transistions in my life, facing a slew of changes that are still ongoing. In a strange way, her memorial marks the end of the most intense phase of this process, though not the completion of it. I seriously doubt that completion is attainable, at least in the sense of being able to sit back and say "I'm done".
Richard Bach was wrote "Here's how to determine if you've completed your purpose in life: If you're still alive, you haven't." I'm paraphrasing, of course (I'm too rushed to do the prequisite googling -- or spell check, for that matter), but the spirit of the quote is still true enough. When I received a summation of the coroner's report last week, all I could think of was how I could have prevented this from happening (why do we torure ourselves that way, any way?), but at then end of it all I have to admit that truth, that her mission was completed, and it was time for her to leave.
Damn it, back to work.