Seven months: Obvious and true

Today is seven months since you took your last breath. I can't believe it. I have no choice but to believe it. Seven months since we last held hands, seven months since I kissed you, seven months since... everything.

I miss you.
How stunningly obvious.

Yesterday was my birthday, the next in a long line of milestones marking your last year. On my birthday last year we had a few friends over. We laughed. We ate cake. I remember being worried because you weren't eating much but you assured me you just had a stomach ache. It was a sweet day. Afterwards we both remarked that we were finding friends, community, that Kansas City was going to work for us.

Yesterday I was well taken care of by friends, some of whom you've met, others have arrived since you died, brought into my life by your death and my need. It was nice. They all did their best to let me know how much I am loved. I appreciate it. They were kind and loving and concerned.

But they aren't you.
Again, how stunningly obvious. How utterly true.

When I blew out my candles I forgot to make a wish.

I sobbed last night, violent painful tears.
That's okay. As I move through grief (and I am moving though the path is jagged) I have learned that even if I feel truly, utterly, horrendously sad, it will ease. It won't abate, but I will eventually be able to breathe for at least a little while.

I eventually fell asleep and dreamt.

I had some new and magical way to travel through time. It was a year ago, my birthday when you were still here, and I had knowledge of what was to come. You had begun the rounds of doctors' appointments and I begged you to insist on a CT scan. I knew what the results would be and I was hoping against hope that it would be caught early enough that we might be able to do something, save you somehow. I gave you a hug and kiss, watched you walk out the door and thought of how I would look surprised and upset when you came home to tell me the results of the scan. How we would find the best doctors and how maybe things could be different. I knew it wasn't soon enough so I was already thinking of how I might go further back in time and try again.

I woke full of painful hope, knowing that even then it wouldn't be enough. That I would still be here, a year later, alone in our bed.

I lay awake for a long time, staring into the dark, wishing I had magical powers.

I still wish I had magical powers. I didn't think to wish for them when I blew out the candles.

I miss you. I always will.
I love you. I aways will.
I do not regret a minute of our time together, even with the pain I am experiencing now.
How true. How obvious and how true.

(c)2014 Laura S. Packer