I've been going through some of Sara's notebooks... the French made, spiral bound kind with multiple sections of grid paper, each a different lovely soft pastel. I can't tell you all how guilty it makes me feel to read some of it. To read how lonely Sara was, and how guilty she felt at accepting gifts and money from me, directly or otherwise.
It's a stupid practice to go through these. Sara can no longer defend or accuse me properly, or explain. Feelings once recorded as vents become red hot skewers in the eyes of the surviving. Unfixed personal habits which seemed so important at one point may have at the end been meaningless.
And I would let these all go, but I must admit, the red hot accusations contained in between shopping lists of beads and seeds are becoming precious to me for their palpability, their immediacy so mush so that I can almost reach out and touch "us" as we were before she was ill, the pain seems as real as the ring I carry around my neck into which Sara stamped "True Love."
So, to her readers and her fans, this is another reason why I didn't want to share my greif, becuase I didn't want to share my guilt, the huge gulf I left between the comfort I gave Sara and the love and affection she needed. So please, do not wish me well, do not wish me to go on, or tell me to get over her. This will not help me. Instead, pray to Sara to forgive me that if I should see her again in some other life, she be not angry or spurn me but believe me when I say I did the best I knew how at the time, and will forever believe that I did far less than she deserved.