No Victory March

/ Writings By Rosemary

Part of it feels like Hallelujah, and you’ll think that’s a bad thing but it is not.

Hallelujah …  Halle-lujah …

And wouldn’t he laugh to think that a holy song would be sung in his honor. Except, he was not disrespectful, not in that way. Irreverent, yes, but not without manners, not intentionally, never intentionally.

Someone said, “irreverent and a lot of fun,” and someone else said, “He was always there with his quick wit.” Those closest to him said, “loyal.”

We are so many things.

Who was he? Who was I to him? We will not know one another again until the next life, but whether he can hear or see or know, I say to him, “Hallelujah … Halle-lu-jah …”

“Baby, I’ve been here before. I’ve seen this room, and I’ve walked this floor, you know, I used to live alone before I knew ya. And I’ve seen your flag on the marble arch, and love is not a victory march … it’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah.”

A flag on the marble arch.

There are any number of possibilities for #fffff. If you’ve been here, you know: I am bold yet still with a broken Hallelujah.

Amazing and predictable and heart-breaking all at the same time. I’d do it 1,000 times more and I would not want to do it again, ever.

Allan W. Hook, September 3rd. Until tomorrow.

8 thoughts on “No Victory March”

  1. Love your writings – so proud of you and the tributes you continue to provide to your wonderful man, husband and soul mate.

  2. Ten years and he is still with me. Allan would have had great fun with the song, especially:
    ‘You saw her bathing on the roof
    Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew ya
    She tied you to the kitchen chair
    She broke your throne and she cut your hair
    And from your lips, she drew the Hallelujah!’

    He always wanted to draw! Such an artist.

  5. Thinking of you and your Hook today Rosemary. I walked outside and paid close attention to the beautiful flowers & insects In my yard. I figured it was an appropriate tribute to your husband. Love you my dear sister.

  6. Sending tender thoughts. These anniversaries are hard. (Coincidentally, I lost a younger brother on this day 14 years ago).

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