My kids are bigger.
My thighs are smaller (only just).
My job is different.
My house is new (to me).
My man is new (to me) and incredible (to me and in general).
My heart is open again. But the cracks still show. The waves of grief hit less frequently these days, and I recover much quicker. But they can still knock the wind out of me without notice.
I’m less focused now on those sad last days and remembering some of the moments when she was alive. Not just living, but truly alive.
I remember lying together in my bed one Christmas Eve, holding hands and looking at each other while we chatted.
“You can’t live forever,” she said, while tears rolled silently down my cheeks. “Oh, Jen, don’t cry.”
“It’s okay. I’ll be okay. And I know you have to go. It’s just that I’m going to miss you.”
“Oh,” she said, stroking her hand down my cheek. “And I’m going to miss you.”