Another "Last"

So Aaron, tonight was our very last night of ward ball. 

And apparently, Andrew left his mark on the team when he chose the mascot. He said they asked for a mascot when he was playing and he told them, "penguins." So their uniforms say "Mountainville 3rd Penguins." Silly kid... 

It seems kinda weird for that to actually be over. I remember going to games back when David was just 12, and then Jonny, and so on. Now with Michael graduating this year, it's over. No more, and that's strange.

Within a few months, it will just be Dad and me and the dogs here.

I'm not sure I'm ready for that. 

Somehow, I never thought about what it would be like with no kids here. I always assumed you'd be here, and you were.

Until you weren't. 

You're the youngest, not Michael. He shouldn't be the last to leave, and yet he is.

Someone whose child just passed asked me today when it was that I was able to start working and feel like I was semi-functioning again. Honestly, I'm not sure.

I know I went back to work on January 3rd, not quite two weeks after you left, but I don't know that I should have. When I stayed home that Friday because of training I was relieved to not have to leave the house, or I guess more specifically, to return to the house. Somehow, the returning has always been the hardest part. 

Anyway, those days are honestly kinda a blur, maybe because my heart and brain are protecting me, a trauma response to the pain. 

I don't know...

Anyway, kiddo, I miss you. I love you so much. The pain is becoming less intense, at least most of the time, but it still underlies everything I do.  I think in one form or another, it will always be there. There really isn't a day that doesn't have some tears in it. But then I discovered yesterday that the first two years is considered "early grief" so I guess that's to be expected.  

I learned this week that Nana wrote to Papa every night after he passed until she joined him 20 years later. I wish I could read what she wrote, but it gives me strength just to know it happened. I hope you're with them. After all, you're named for him. 

I love you. 

I miss you.

“Grief is like the ocean; it comes on waves ebbing and flowing.
Sometimes the water is calm, and sometimes it is overwhelming.
All we can do is learn to swim.” 

- Vicki Harrison.