I came across this song a few weeks ago as it played in the background while I worked—making sense of monthly accounting spreadsheets as I remember. Every once in a while I’ll be half-listening to a song and quickly realize that it deserves closer attention. A word or two will catch my attention the way a glint of sunlight hits a piece of glass in your path and makes you stop and look. This was one of those songs. Off I went to Google the band and find a video.

The words that struck me were these:

“I’m so scared of losing you and I don’t know what I can do about it, about it.

So tell me how long, love, before you go
And leave me here on my own?
I know that I don't wanna know who I am without you.”

Sure, it’s a break-up song, but the beauty of a really good song is that you can make it work for your situation, even if it wasn’t written for that reason.

Last Saturday marked the third anniversary of Kevin’s passing—a length of time that I still can’t comprehend. For twenty-seven years we had not been apart from each other for more than ten days’ time. I feel memories fade ever so slightly each year and I fear I need to make time stop before they fade away completely. I grasp at them each day with greater urgency.

Having been married for twenty-seven years, and marrying as we did in our early twenties, the last three years have indeed been a search to find out who I am without him. In so many ways, Kevin and I grew up together, our adult lives becoming completely interwoven. Our courtship lasted less than two years and was a bit tumultuous. We met when we both worked at the Hyatt Regency Hotel and I invited Kevin’s roommate Bob to a party I was having at my parents’ house while they were out of town.

Thinking back on that party, it really is a metaphor for the scattered, indecisive way in which I’ve lived my life all these years since—too often going with the flow, dabbling in this and that, never quite able to confidently define myself in any fixed way. Kevin and Bob were part of a group from my new job. They were a fairly hardworking bunch, though not necessarily studious. Some were in college; others were going to work at the hotel forever.

Then there was a young man I had dated a bit through the winter. Tommy played in a punk rock band, had several piercings, wore a spiked leather wristband, and was in love with Chrissie Hynde of the Pretenders. I had a few earrings dangling from my ear, wore ripped jeans and listened to The Clash. Music defined much of my youth, and my dream was to write about music. Tommy showed up in his hot-rod car, which most of my peers did in Detroit in 1982. He was good looking, fun and destined to a middle class life of factory work.

Then there was Steve. He was finishing his MFA in photography. He was artsy and creative, and eight years older than I. He was absolutely dedicated to his craft—fame and fortune or even steady income be damned. We read Patti Smith's poetry aloud and dreamed of tiny apartments in Manhattan. Steve represented the Bohemian creative-type that I yearned to be on certain days. But at what cost? I had grown up in a working-class neighborhood in Detroit, but both my parents worked, which made our situation a bit more secure—not wealthy, just comfortable enough to all go to college, have nice clothes and dinner out if we wanted to. It was expected that I would work to have a better life than my parents. Forsaking that for the life of a starving artist was not something I felt comfortable explaining to my parents or necessarily choosing for myself.

There was no instant spark that first time Kevin and I met. But we encountered each other at work and at after-work get-togethers enough that we found we had much in common. Soon we were planning our work breaks together, going out nearly every night after work and finding ways to connect momentarily on the campus where we both took classes.

We broke up a few times (too long a story to explain here), and I went away to school . During that time, I changed majors and even changed schools--twice. I went from studying literature to marketing—trading in time spent writing poetry for writing advertising copy. As Kevin and I planned our wedding, I felt the need to give up the dream of being a poor poet and plan for a corporate future that would afford a nice house, cars, and annual vacations.

My life was further defined by the home we purchased and renovated, and then as the mother of two children. I was absorbed into the day-to-day of my life like a chameleon on colored paper, until I didn’t really know where others’ lives stopped and mine began. I am not alone in this, for certain.

And Kevin was more supportive than most in encouraging me to pursue my interests. He read most everything I wrote, and was one of only a few people with whom I shared essays, stories and even my crappy teen-angst poetry. He, too, worried that the creative person he married was getting lost in our busy lives, but neither of us knew how to do the hard work of carving out the time and space I needed. Like many women, I struggled to fully nourish my creative interests without feeling guilty about taking time away from my family, job, home, etc., etc.

And though I may have wished for that life of a writer, I also must admit that I took full advantage of the comforts of our (mostly Kevin's) hard work. Such was the conflict I had all those years--who is the real Lori: if you want to be a struggling writer who lives solely on her earnings, go be one, but you'll need to leave your Amex card behind.

Now, my children are mostly grown and self-sufficient, I’ve sold the house, I am no longer a wife, or even someone’s child, as my parents have also both passed away.

It is scary to be finding out “who I am without you.” At my least rational times I even wonder if I brought this situation on myself after wishing sometimes to be on my own with a laptop and no other responsibilities.

I am of course, the sum of all these things—wife, mother, daughter, sister, aunt, niece, gardener, cook, friend, caregiver, and writer. I see myself made of my experiences in each of these roles as though they create the very cells that make my flesh and blood. In the best sense, they even inform and give life to my writing.

And now I must decide what Lori 2.0 will be. It is, at times, exhilarating, frightening, and grief-inducing. It is something I must do on my own, not only because that’s probably the best way, but also because I don’t have much choice. I don’t know exactly how things will work out, but I’m determined to be more present in making decisions about my life. I want to spend more time on shore, checking out the surroundings, rather than allowing myself to just be carried by the current. I owe this to myself, but also to Kevin, and his memory.