Six years. It’s hard to believe it’s been that long since I last held you. It still feels like yesterday since you died.
The pain has finally started to numb. I don’t know if I’m okay with that. If I sit and allow my thoughts to be solely focused on you, my heart sinks and my chest tightens, filling with the loss of you. I still feel. It’s just not crippling any longer. I hate and love that aspect of humanity. We are resilient and can pretty much heal from anything, though I don’t think heal is the correct word for this.
I can never heal from this. I can move forward. I can carry on. Heal? How does one move on when a part of them is forever gone? The simple answer is they don’t. I’m sure there are philosophers and psychologists that would debate the many merits for and against the human condition, but all I care about is missing you.
I still don’t say “Good Morning” to anyone, though now it’s more of a tradition, respecting that no morning is good without you, rather than my emotional inability to see beyond my loneliness. I kiss the ring I wear in your honour upon every thought of you which is still daily.
It’s easier to talk about the short life you lived, the joy you brought to so many, the amazing things you did. Here’s one that comes to mind:
We were on our way back to the house when you persisted at a neighbour’s doorway. I was worried others might be looking, that someone might call the local authorities on us, but you wouldn’t budge, practically throwing a tantrum when I attempted to pull you away. Instead, I gave into curiousity, trusting your instincts, and opened the door, knocking gently, calling out for anyone inside so as not to alarm them.
There was no answer.
My heart raced in my chest. We were trespassing, violating someone else’s private space, the sanctity of their home. You barged right in without hesitation. It was like you somehow knew what was about to come.
I called out to you in a whisper to come back, but you ignored me. I had no choice but to follow you deeper into the house. I could hear you in the bedroom and as I entered the doorway, ready to scold you, ready to leave in fear and anger, there she was, laying in a pool of her own blood. I went stiff with shock.
You looked at me. I called emergency services.
It was later I found out that the elderly woman had fallen trying to get out of bed, hitting her head on the corner of her night table. It was one of those old style antique pieces, with the nasty bits that stick out, and she had gashed herself deeply. She may have died if not for you. They heralded you a hero in the local news.
You were always amazing.
Retelling that story is bringing tears to my eyes. Maybe I’m not numb. That makes me smile. Now I’m smiling with tears in my eyes. This is the other part of the human condition I hope to never lose – the messed up part.
I love you. I miss you. I hope you know peace.