It's Getting Easier

I recently shared this and other recent posts on my other blog, Not My Mother's 60. 

I still count the loss in months. Can it really be sixteen? Emotions well up as the 19th of each month approaches. George was always mildly amused with my penchant for recalling what happened a “week/month/year ago today”. I was his personal almanac of otherwise forgettable moments that somehow left an impression on me - worthy of my recall... 


It’s getting easier. 

16 months.  Every morning I wake up to your absence. The empty space in our bed. The void that will never be filled. I blink away the fog of sleep and accept it. You’re not here. The reality sinks in and I prepare for the beginning of another day without you.

It’s getting easier. 

I look at your picture on the wall beside the bed. Your eyes beaming your reassurance that I can do anything. I pull myself out of bed to begin my day. I fill the moments with ordinary activities and paint on my happy face, reminding myself of all that I have to be grateful for. I know that's what you want me to do.

I talk to you. You often answer with specific songs on my Pandora channel, played with a frequency and timing unexplained by any "thumbs up" algorithm . Charlie listens to my conversations, both with you and with him. His soulful eyes and gently wagging tail give me comfort and purpose.


He's particularly attentive today, and as I write this blog, he has nudged me periodically. "Is Daddy with you?" I ask him. I imagine Charlie's snuggles are from you, letting me know you're nearby.


I get through the day, and to most people I look “healed”. After all, it has been 16 months since That Day. But those who know me best understand.

It’s getting easier. 

The Grands visit often, and squeal with delight when your face appears on the scrolling digital frame. “Grandpa!” they exclaim, doing a little happy dance, with my encouragement. They hardly knew you, my love, but they will never forget you.




And my day goes on, without you. The routine. The mundane. The business of living. And the delightful distractions. Lunch with friends. Grand time. An occasional road trip to visit loved ones. My weekly pilgrimage to our favorite place for Happy Hour, where I get my dose of hugs from those who miss you too. Smiles and laughter. Music and memories.

It's getting easier.

Everything reminds me of you, honey. I cherish each reminder, and smile often. I watch the video of our last dance and feel your arms wrapped around me.

I imagine your voice, your laughter and your no-nonsense, take care of business confidence. Your blue eyes, and the fringe of hair peeking out from under your ever-present Dodgers cap.

It's getting easier. 



As darkness fills the sky and the day comes to an end, I make my way to our bed once again. Another day further from you. I feel so small at night. The void you left touches the deepest parts of my being. I look at your picture again, and as I say good night I invite you to visit me. I hold your pillow. The one you took to your hospital stays. The pillow your head rested on when I kissed you that final goodbye. Now I caress it, imagining my hand on your chest, feeling your heart beat. I close my eyes, eager for sleep to numb my loneliness. Relieved to have made it through yet another day - without you.

I miss you my love.

It’s getting easier. 

 But it will never get better.


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