This post is aimed at anyone who has lost a loved one — namely a spouse — after spending decades melding your life with him or her.

As many of you know, I lost my dear bride to cancer a little more than a year ago. Kathy Anne received a glioblastoma diagnosis and six weeks later she was gone. Her oncologist called it the “most aggressive brain cancer I have seen in all my years practicing medicine.”

But then came my emotional journey on which I embarked. Today, a major part of that journey ended for me. After agonizing since the worst day of life, I finally gathered up Kathy Anne’s clothes and delivered them to a shelter for women who need them.

I had been told there are many ways to approach this task. One friend of mine told me she donated her late husband’s clothes two weeks after she lost him. One of my dearest friends on Earth hired someone to empty his late wife’s closet after she passed from cancer about four years ago. Others have waited even longer than I did, while others have completed the task quickly.

I chose to wait. It was too large a leap to make. We had shared a home for 51 years. We became like one. Kathy Anne had been the embodiment of good health … until she wasn’t.

My journey has been a long one, to be sure. I have cleared many emotional hurdles. My friends have told me I have made great strides. My family has been strong, too. My sons, my daughter-in-law and my granddaughter have endured the pain of losing the pillar of our family. Their strength has sustained me.

Today, I am happy to report, is a good day. I believe I have cleared the final hurdle on my journey through the darkness.

The gentleman who received the clothing spoke the truth beautifully to me this morning. “Your wife would want us to put these items to good use,” he said, “and we will.”

This post is for those I haven’t known since The Flood. It is for relatively recent acquaintances and friends, some of whom ask me this question at this time of year:

Is the mustache coming off, too, along with the rest of your facial hair? Answer: nope; not even.

The mustache has been part of my face since 1970. Except for a brief period in 1980 when I decided to shave it off. Big mistake.

I started growing it as I was preparing to exit the Army. I had returned from Vietnam and was stationed at Fort Lewis, Wash., just up the highway from my Portland, Ore., hometown.

It was July 1970. I was a month from shucking the uniform forever and returning to civilian life. I grew the mustache. I liked it. It quickly became part of me.

Then a decade later, I decided to shave it off. I had two small boys at home with me. I came out of the bathroom and presented my clean-shaven face to my family. My bride, Kathy Anne, approved. The boys? They couldn’t stop laughing.

They were six and five. They had never seen Dad without facial hair. For that matter, neither had Kathy Anne … but she was cool with the “new” me.

My sons’ laughter never let up. After less than a week of it, I surrendered. The stubble returned. Soon it blossomed into a full-grown mustache. It has stayed.

The beard comes and goes. I usually shave it off every spring. This year it came off about a month early. Which is OK. Kathy Anne preferred I keep it year-round. We would “fight” good naturedly when the time came to shave it off. I no longer have to wage that fake fight. So, it came off.

But come this autumn, the beard will return as it does every year.

I just wanted to share this bit of useless info. You are now free to pursue more important matters.