July 14

It’s been over two weeks since July 4th, but I swear I can still feel the thump of fireworks in my body. Growing up, I loved Independence Day, the picnics, sparklers, fireflies, endless days, and warm nights. It represented the best time of the year: summer. It was a marker to look forward to, but then it was over, and we began a different kind of countdown, one to the first day of school. That countdown was much less fun.

Raymond is gone five months today, and each day adds to the running total of how many days we’re without him. For now, it’s a small number, only 151. It seems big. It’s a triple-digit number after all, but eventually, the number will grow to four digits, and then five. It will grow larger than 11,087, the number of days he walked on this giant rock. Eventually we will live without him longer than we lived with him. I am resigned to that fact. And completely gutted.

Sometimes I pick my phone up to text him. I still have things I want to tell him, like how he would really like this new song on the radio or that there was a two-for-one sale on those cheap grocery-store brownies he loves. But my fear is when I stop all that. When I stop thinking of him or can’t remember what he smelled like or the way he cleared his throat before he told a story. What if I forget the sound of his voice or the exact ashy-gold color of his hair? Or the way he said my name, and how he loped when he walked, as if his arms were too long for his body. What if I forget all of this?

What then?

#Grief #Calendar #FinalCountdown