5:17 am on July 13 was when Cole died. They let me in to be with him. I watched him slip through my fingers for the final time and I wanted it so badly I thought God was going to come out of the sky and push me right on through the ground into hell for those thoughts.
And I talked to him. Jittery, random sentences that flew out of my mouth. Everything I ever wanted to say that I didn't get to say because our twenty years together didn't end so well. I asked questions I will never have answers to, again. He wins.
I'm sorry.
You treated me like dirt. What did you expect me to love you with, when I had nothing left?
He's good to me. To the kids. He looks after us.
Why didn't you just let me go?
Why did you have to hurt me?
I hate you.
And I cried. The tears just rolled down my face with great big fat blubbery sobs following and I sat there and watched the clock and I didn't look at him until 5:17. That's when I looked at him and said:
I love you.
And that was the moment he died.
And now every day I wake up at 5:17 am. And I'm one hundred percent convinced that he's haunting me using time as his weapon. Because Cole would do that.
