Numbers don't matter anymore but yesterday in the howling wind and driving rain Jacob would have turned fifty-six. A distinguished, reasonable age at this point. An age that feels ancient until you're close enough to try it on. An age that might have seen his glorious blonde waves turning sandy or white, his laugh lines deepened, his concentrating-preacher face more stern and softened somehow at the same time, and his ever-present faded jeans a little more worn and thin.
Maybe he would have gotten fat and turned to nightly cigars. Maybe he would have picked fights. Maybe he would have withdrawn into his own cozy shell. Maybe he would have given up on my frantic glitter-infused brand of chaos, panic and joy. Maybe he would have turned away from watching me run headlong into every emotion only to bounce off it and be left wondering why the door is closed when I can't even see one.
I want to doubt it but over the past few years a lot of patience has worn thin only to come back around, darned and visibly repaired but stronger than before.
I want to hug him and just rest in his arms long enough to catch my breath (and my brain) for once in my life. I want to not feel my eyes burn and flood every time I think of him. I wanted him to be here and do this future with me in a way I've never wanted anything before but now I reap what I sowed all those years ago, trading a swing and a miss at forever for a bitter second-place-feeling beautiful redhead of a man who was here the whole time anyway and I don't want Lochlan to feel that way but it's a different kid of love. There's enough of both that's for sure and maybe it's the ultimate reassurance when your only romantic adversary turns up dead and maybe that's life and it's enough.
The rain and wind howling all through the dark night told me nothing ever really changes. When I said I live around my sadness like it's a castle keep in the center of a rushing river that isn't what I meant, exactly. It's more like just sucking it up one minute after the next in order to get things done and try and keep it from tripping me and enveloping me in it's breathless embrace before I can get up and get some distance between us. Sometimes I want an ocean in there, sometimes I want to be able to reach out and touch it.
I poured out the every present birthday drink onto the wall where I last saw his ghost. I hope he enjoyed the spectacle of the wind and my hair (now long again, funny how that works) and my dress whipping around me like a dervish while I tried to mark a special day that feels more reverent as time goes on.
Am I here? Yes I'm here. And it hurts.