Many years have gone by now and I still dread today like the rain that never stops, and you wonder if you will get swept to your demise or wind up in a new place altogether. I did anyway, as nothing is ever familiar about the way this feels and I have used this anniversary as my own personal monkey bars, and I climb all over it and run around it and sometimes I duck between the bars and sit inside and hope no one can see me, and sometimes, more rarely and ever wonderful, I can stand at the very top, arms outstretched toward the sun and I can reach for heaven and wave, hoping he sees me.
Some days I can't even make it to the park, but I am not keeping score. I no longer care what year anniversary this is or exactly how many days he has been gone. I don't weep for the man he would have been on his birthday, the day that follows this day nor do I recognize myself in the mirror.
Things I want to tell him are always on the tip of my tongue.
I made potato bread today. I bet you'd love it.
Do you think the world is actually imploding?
What do you think of this perfume?
Your son got his contract extended for a year. He's doing so good.
Ruth is overwhelmed in her amazing career and is finally going to buy snow tires.
PJ still calls you a coward in his darkest moments.
Caleb still wishes he had been there to push you.
I wish you never left.
I wish I looked the same for you.
I can't tell him that Amazon now gives me a running countdown to tell me how many stops away they are, or that butter now costs nine dollars for a cups worth, salted or not. I can't tell him I finally stopped drinking, just when our homemade wine was starting to get good. I can't tell him I gained a little weight or that it's because my heart falls out constantly, rolling around on the floor picking up dust. I could show him the new kittens but I don't think they would be enough to bring him back. I could show him what finally forced Ben into the sweet gentle giant role he should have been all along but I could also show him how long it takes Ben to type a text message, or get a joke now.
Maybe he does see all of it, and more. Maybe he sees how I struggle to conquer this jungle gym and I fall off it so often, knocking the wind from my lungs on the hard grass, leaving streaks of dirt on the back of my shirt.
Maybe last year was easier. Maybe next year will be too. Maybe the rain will stop but I doubt that just like I doubt everything. It's the new normal. I live with it, around it and in it. And yet I am never comfortable here. And I never ever stop missing him.