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I remember that four years ago today we were in our home for the last time. Four years ago today he was in a hospital bed in our dining room. I was sleeping in a chair by his side. We knew he was approaching the end but you never know the end has arrived until it does. Four years ago today he could still hug me, still tell me he loves me, still was breathing.
Three years ago today I was only just learning how to breath again. I was still questioning if I wanted to keep breathing in a world without him.
Two years ago today I went looking for fossils to remind myself that I and Kevin are but a moment in time, as permanent as a calcified shell, as impermanent as a breeze.
A year ago today I was in the Caribbean, thinking I could be sad someplace beautiful as easily as at home. I was right.
And today. Today I have worked. I ran errands. I wrapped myself in a blanket and cried. I thought and remembered and was in uncomfortable astonishment that I am still here.
I feel tired.
I feel physically uncomfortable, grief is often somatic.
I feel grateful for this sorrow, for this pain, for the memories.
I feel numb.
I feel bereft.
I feel forgetful and uneasy.
I feel grief and love and hope and impermanent and and and and and...
Please don't tell me that of course I am better now, it's been years.
Please don't tell me that of course I am better now, I have a new love.
Please don't tell me that I will feel better soon.
It doesn't matter that it's almost four years. It doesn't matter that I have love in my life. It doesn't matter that this, too, shall pass.
What matters is that I loved. And was loved. And love. And do love. What matters is that I remember and mourn and celebrate.
We each grieve in our own way and in our own season. Today I am feeling sad and weary. So it goes. So it goes.
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