"I'll be seeing you,
In all the old familiar places
That this heart of mine embraces,
All day through,,,"
8 months.
8 whole months.
The night Sgt. Didham came and sat at the table, the look in her eyes and the gentle sigh she gave giving the news I never thought I would hear, is as fresh in my mind as if it was 8 minutes ago.
Not 8 months.
The look on her face as I whispered, "He's gone, isn't he?"
I knew.
I felt you slip away.
I knew you were no longer here.
"In that small cafe,
The park across the way,
The children's carousel,
The chestnut trees,
The wishing well..."
Everyday, mundane things are so different now.
I miss how we would go for coffee in the morning, go to Winners (how you loved Winners), go for a stroll in Bowring Park, take Vinny and Colton around Neil's Pond, sit on the couch and just be.
Just be.
I don't even feel like I know how to "just be" anymore.
"I'll be seeing you,
In every lovely summer's day,
In everything that's light and gay,
I'll always think of you that way..."
How light everything was.
Summer's days have come and gone and you were not here for any of them.
How I would come home on Westport, doors open and windows open, music blaring as I watched you dance around the kitchen on those warm summer days.
And things have gotten cold again.
Cold like the night you were taken.
How are we back here?
With Christmas looming?
How you despised Christmas but said you were trying to find joy in it because of him.
And us.
And we did.
Decorating the tree, wrapping the pictures that now sit on my floor, making the look like presents.
Promising not to buy each other anything but always breaking the promise.
Last year we went to Jamaica and swore we would go back to that resort again.
We didn't know.
We couldn't know.
And it is so, so cold now.
We should be celebrating our first Christmas in our new home, my parents visiting, the tree glowing and the presents we swore we wouldn't buy each other hiding in our closets.
No family skate where you show Colton your slapshot and I show him my backhand.
Instead there is a dread and an emptiness, nothing being the same, and I will head home to my little cove for Christmas, without you by my side.
8 months and one day.
35 weeks.
35 damn weeks.
Every night I just hope I dream and you are there.
You usually are.
And we are doing those everyday, mundane things we took for granted.
I miss you.
I miss us.
And I hope, wherever you are, you know how much I love you and, whether in dreams or in some other world down the road, I'll be seeing you.
"I'll find you in the morning sun,
And when the night is new,
I'll be looking at the moon,
But I'll be seeing you..."
