I used to think I lived my life according to high standards and would have no regrets when someone I loved died.  Well, that was blown asunder when my husband, my most beloved, died. I am racked with regrets.  Regrets such as not telling him how much I appreciated him, how sorry I was for not getting as excited with him for all the things in his life that excited him.  Regrets about the way I spoke when I was angry.  Regrets about getting angry because none of that stuff really matters anyway.  Regrets I didn’t sit near him more and feel his body next to mine.  More regrets that I didn’t hold him close every night of every week for the 34 years we were married.  I so remember our wedding night when we both finally finished the day.  He was in bed and I was getting ready and as I started to get into bed, Michael said, “Come here. I’ve been waiting so long for this.”  He meant to sleep together, not sex, just sleep, holding each other close.  We were both too tired to do anything but sleep that night.  I regret that I didn’t say good-bye and stay in the moment of how much I love him.