Marking another year without him, but every day is another day without him. I can acknowledge with grief both that things are easier on a day-to-day basis for me and that I never will be over it. I would never want to be truly over it. To be truly over him.
Even while selfishly admitting that my life does not have the constant, crippling worries about him that it once did, the past 6 years have been really, really hard without him. This year I have not been sick with the usual winter plague. I am (mostly) well-rested and played hermit delightfully all through January with a companion who understands when I need to play homebody. I have made reasonable plans this month to keep busy and occupy my mind with things to look forward to. I felt ready to face the gloom of February without wanting to crawl into a hole. I was caught off guard. This year holds the same calendar pattern as the year his accident happened and it has been a struggle to get through this week. So many reminders of the last times we spent together and the last time I spoke to him. Of taking my parents to the airport at the ass-crack of dawn on a Friday and calling at lunch to remind Randy he was on stupid dog-watching duty at their house after work. To hear his disappointed reaction that I wasn’t coming over the following night because I had plans and his disapproval to know they were with a guy that doesn’t love me in the way I want to be loved. How I would give anything for a do-over of that weekend. To have been there. To not completely melt down anytime my doorbell rings unexpectedly because of that early morning the police came and rang it.