Evenings cool off. By the time I get home from work, the backyard is shaded. Hummingbirds still flit (and chitter and scold each other) but it won't be too many more weeks before they fly south again.
Days are still hot, but nights are chill. I put a jacket on when I sit outside in the morning.
School starts in two weeks.
We've almost made it through the second summer without you, and it still seems surreal sometimes.
Other times, I feel like I've woken up, the numbness wears off, the ache duller in some ways but sharper in others. Everyone watches for the first year: the first birthday, the first anniversary of your death, the first Christmas, Thanksgiving, Mother's Day and Father's Day. But the second is different.
By the second time days and seasons roll around, others move on. But instead of focusing on getting through the "firsts," the reality of the "this is the way it will be for always" starts to sink in.
I'm not exactly sure why the pain has been more intense lately. Maybe because I'm physically and emotionally exhausted. My yard is torn up, my house is torn up. Making them look good again is going to take a lot of time and work. We'll get there, but right now, it's hard.
Oh, Aaron, do you miss me as much as I miss you? In some ways, I hope not. I hope you are happy and at peace. I hope you don't hurt like I do.
Oh Baby...
Last night, a perfect crescent moon hung over the trees, above the hill, and I imagined you resting on it, looking down.
I miss you so much.
Love,
Mama
“The weird, weird thing about devastating loss is that life actually goes on. When you're faced with a tragedy, a loss so huge that you have no idea how you can live through it, somehow, the world keeps turning, the seconds keep ticking.”
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