41.

This is 41.

There are no lyrics, no songs to relate to, no poetic muses to help carry along these words.

This is 41.

And it all feels so numb.

This time last year, actually the day before, you told me how you would make sure 40 was my best year yet, as we planned a sunny vacation in Jamaica, and you wanted to celebrate.

I had told you if I came home to one more person in the house on that day other than you I was moving out.

And we laughed.

I have never done well with birthdays.

And you obliged, nothing more than dinner from my favourite restaurant, hugs, kisses and the promise that you would do everything in your power to make 40 the best yet.

But the universe had other ideas.

You tried.

It succeeded.

41.

I keep thinking how I am now 41, almost the age you were and will forever be, and I do not know how to process that.

I always joked that I was forever younger but now I will not be.

You are forever 42.

And now I am 41, in the house that is mine but not the house that was supposed to be ours.

41 held so much promise that was not to be.

Birthday wishes roll in and I cannot respond.

I ran today.

My second run since you died.

I know you would be proud and I had to. I had to drag myself out after 12 hours of sleep.

Trips on the road for work take so much more recovery now that you are not there to come home to.

I look at the changes since 40.

Dinner, work, fancy dinners, sunny vacations in Jamaica, nights at home, COVID, promise, offers on our house, your death.

And it takes my breath away more than the smoking habit I picked up the day that you died.

"What do you need?" my best friend asked.

"Cigarettes," I had answered. "Any cigarettes."

And I smoke one after another still looking for the peace or something that helps alleviate the concrete that sits on my chest every day.

I look around this house, the house I had to buy, not the house we were buying.

Not the yellow house on Wells Crescent but this house on Third Street, the one you and your friends grew up in but I did not even know that until later.

The one that holds your ghosts.

The house that has pictures of you but not you.

You should be here.

I have these dreams now.

They are recurring dreams and they will not go away.

Every night I dream of things that happen, of Stef coming home, of speeches and presentations, of weddings (sometimes our own) and you cannot be there.

I can call you but I cannot see you.

You cannot be there but you want to and I dial your number to hear you so sweetly say, "I'm sorry, sweetness, I can't come."

And it guts me.

But at the same time the me in the dream understands, though me who wakes in the empty bed does not and hopes that somehow it is your way of telling me you are watching, that you are proud, but you simply cannot be here because it is out of your control.

I miss you.

I miss you, I miss us, I miss our little family and how everything is so empty now.

Every day is simply a wake up, work, come home, sleep and make it to the next one.

And I wish I could offer something, anything, to the universe to get it all back.

But I cannot.

I wonder what we would all be doing now.

Hockey practice, walks in the neighbourhood, setting up his playroom, getting familiar with the new house, riding in your new car.

But it all came to a halt that night.

Everything ended.

Everything I knew ended.

And I wasn't ready for that.

So I have spent the last year trying to walk through this.

I have given it my all.

And while there are days I had wished I was not here to wake up and feel the pain I know I have to be here to feel and that I have a job to do to let the world know who you were and that you were here.

So I will continue.

Blindly.

I miss you.

I miss our little family and our future.

I know you sent Stanley.

You had told that medium you spoke to through your friend that you would communicate with me through an animal. He lets me know. 

And I thank you for that.

But I would give all of this up to be able to go back to nights in your arms.

This is 41.

In a week and a bit you would have been 43.

And I will never understand a world that took that from you, from us, and made you forever 42.

I'm so tired.

But I will carry on.

I will do good in your name and I will push as hard as I possibly can.

That is all I can do.

And thank you, my love.

You could not overpower the universe and make 40 my best year yet.

But you made 37 until then the most beautiful years imaginable.