Then you died.
This year, the clouds are broken, the low temps are broken, and it’s teasing of spring. It’s teasing like you’re here.
You never came back. Or, not yet. I really kept thinking you would. The day you died, I stood in the bathroom and cried while everyone was at the table was trying to eat pizza and salad and go on because that’s what you do. Anyway, I was crying the kind of lost cry where everything hurts and you don’t think it will be any better, and you can’t really breathe, but then a thought popped in my head that made me relief from the pain – I thought you’d just come back. You’d come back as a ghost, I guess, and everything would be all right and go on as it once was. I kept telling myself I didn’t have to tell anyone, but I could still have my life with you.
It’s kind of arrogant, really. Why should I get you back? Doesn’t nearly everyone wish for their loved ones back when they die? I know the dead don’t come back, not really, not in the capacity that relieved my crying for the moment in the bathroom that day. I always thought I would have more tangible proof that my dead loved ones were nearby. I guess it doesn’t work that way.
I’m glad the temperatures broke today. I’ll get to take a walk. And even if I don’t have the tangible proof that you’re here, too, I can pretend I’m walking with you.
I guess I don’t have to tell anyone that, either.