I don't hear your alarms anymore. I mean, I did hear them in my sleep, or when something else would beep, for the first few weeks after you left. But it's been a long time since that happened.
Then last night, I heard you talking. Standing in the kitchen making pizza, I could hear your squeaks and vowel sounds, your almost giggles, your squeals. I paused as it caught my heart, and listened.
Eventually I realized it was Barrett downstairs, but for those few minutes you were back, here, and my soul was comforted.
And then it ached all over again.
I'm still not sure how to go on without you.
Sometimes it's fine.
Sometimes it's most definitely not.
I pause at your grave and talk to you, and listen for the whisper on the breeze.
I find myself opening the windows of the car, catching the tweets of the birds. I wait for the whirr of the hummingbird wings on the patio, and the tones of the windchimes.
They all remind me that I am here, and that you were here, and that somewhere, you still are.
And you will always be a part of me, and me a part of you.
"There’s no end to my grief journey because there’s no end to my love for you."
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