It only seems appropriate ...
It seems appropriate to mark this day.
Yet, it's not.
It's been one year today. One year ago the thing I feared would happen happened. Yet it was also the thing I never thought would happen.
It's been a year. Yet, it was only yesterday.
People don't say "How are you doing?" as often or "What can I do?" Sympathy cards and casserole dinners have long since trickled. Life is normal again. Yet, it will never be the same.
I don't cry every day anymore. Yet, I cry more often than I've ever cried.
I'm getting used to being the one who makes the coffee each morning. Yet, I resent it.
I've had to check the "w" box on forms a few times this year and I've even said the word out loud once or twice. If you can call a small croak or a whisper "out loud."
I've had my share of flowers. Flowers sent, flowers bought for the home and for the grave. Flowers are meant to cheer, yet I've never been in the possession of so many damn flowers.
People say, "There's something about that one-year anniversary." This makes me nervous. Most days I feel no different than I should. Yet what should I feel? What should I feel just because a calendar says I should feel something?
People say "Time heals." It does not. Grief doesn't heal. It just gets small and quiet. It comes along for the ride on your way to work. It sits beside you at the table while you eat. It walks with you to the lake and watches Netflix on the couch. The second I am not distracted, it's there, reminding me of what I've lost.
One year later, I find my focus, not on the fact that it's been one year, but on the life I lived with him. The children we raised. I think about the memories I will carry forward as I continue to fear for our future without him.
So, while my children and I will spend this day together, it is only a day. A day to love. A day to live. A day in a year.
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