Talk Without Speaking

Two years ago I was terrified. I was so scared I couldn’t sleep and I was consumed in a way that was terribly new. Two years today was the last day of my old life.

I hate thinking about that night, about how I wasn’t there with him. How he fought through the night. The details he provided us in the morning, I suppose, will stay with me forever. But I don’t want to blame.

There’s healing to be had and that is still a shock. And yet here two years later I still have these moments when I wonder what is real and another of the rebellious, defiant, parts of my brain gives in to the truth.

The past couple of weeks it has been close, again. It is a change to be able to speak although there are moments when the pain is as fresh as it was that day when I realized. Oh, the emotions have been chaotic.

There are celebrations ahead, I think. Celebrations of his life and all that he did for me, and does for me. Sometimes I wish I could transition to this faster; I am so tired of feeling sad, I am so tired of grieving when I clearly know that he wouldn’t want this. Soon, I think. I won’t rush it; it doesn’t feel safe to. It doesn’t feel wise to.

Two years.