Somehow things seem darker than I remember last year.
Bleaker.
Quieter...
I went by the cemetery and while it was actually earlier than I went last year (I get off an hour earlier because I also start earlier) the light seemed dimmer, the sky blacker.
And hard.
The house seems so different without Gramma. He told stories, many I've heard, some I hadn't. I told stories, too. Ones that featured him that he doesn't remember anymore.
We sat outside and watched a yellow butterfly flitting through the bushes and flowers. It seemed to stay for a long time. Were you and Gramma close by listening too?
Back here, the trees have lost their leaves; they crunch under foot and gardens seem bare. We may see snow next week. Winter is trying to force her way in. November was hard for you. Surgeries, pneumonias, and then storming. We spent one Thanksgiving in the hospital and came close a few other times. I miss those days because it means you were still with us.
Sometimes I close my eyes and I'm right back there, in that PICU room with the little Christmas tree above your head, the banks of IVs, and the machines with their whooshes and beeps.
And sometimes I strain just to remember your smile, your laugh, your wiggles and moves.
Tonight is hitting hard.
Will my brain always count the weeks? It's been almost two years. It seems so odd to have another year that never knew you coming to a close.
Candles flicker on my shelves, lighting dark corners. Your memories light the darkness I feel, but like the candles, the flame is small and sometimes feels like the darkness will overwhelm them.
I miss you.
Love,
Mama
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