I saw you for the last time a year ago today, Katie.
Writing was easier earlier this week. I’d come into my “muse room” and the words would flow. I wrote in here for two days back to back, feeling so refreshed and at peace when I pressed “publish” and closed the laptop.
I sit here tonight, looking out the window of that very same “muse room” and I feel restless. I feel like my nerve endings are on fire and my mind is in a storm and the relentless pain of grief swirls inside. I sit next to a pile of tissues and Lovey Bear and just stare out the window to the bleak, lifeless, wet January day we’re having.
And the thought comes to mind…”what now?”
Today, you are expecting to hear how much I miss her.
You’re expecting to hear how long and lonely a year has been.
You’re thinking I’ll tell you all of the things we’ve missed in 365 days and how the loss of her physical self, her voice, her love and her joy have left me hollow and without purpose.
All of those things are true. I feel every single one of them.
But instead…I want to tell you a story. Long as it may be, it feels important to say on this day. This horrible, awful, gut-wrenching and heart-breaking day.
The memories of today are a blur. I think my brain is protecting my heart. I don’t remember that morning except that she wasn’t feeling well…and that it slowly went downhill at home.