I keep looking at this huge canvas we had made of your obituary photo to stand in front of the urn. It’s on the mantel now and you stare right at me when I am brave enough to turn my gaze in your direction. And when I do it hurts to see you look so alive.

My thoughts turn to all the things we’ll never do again and how all the things we did will now seem so un-fun without you. Trips, and wine, and boating, and binge-watching Scandal.

I don’t cry though. I just look at you and hurt- and then my mind brings back that day, the moment, I guess, like a video loop that I can’t stop seeing. I ran around and did so many things to try to make it not be true- calling 911, dragging you off the couch to give you CPR, letting the 911 operator tell me to keep going and counting all the compressions, starting over with each 100. I don’t think you were there for any of that. I think you were gone before I even got you off the couch. But in those moments, I just wanted to rescue you. To do all the things, any thing I could to make it not be true. Maybe you were watching me. Maybe you were meeting up with your dad and brother and grandparents, not concerned at all about what was going on with your feeble little body- like the farmer in the painting of The Fall of Icarus– just going about his business, not concerned at all with the tragedy unfolding nearby. But that moment is what I see a lot of the time.

The scab fell off yesterday. The one I got from my knee rubbing on the rug while I gave you CPR. I liked it being there. Reminding me that this happened. That there was a physical reminder on me of what happened. That I didn’t dream it, even though I wish I had and I could wake up and hug you, hear you breathe, see all your arms and legs sprawled out across the bed.

But along with the scab being gone, I woke up today knowing you’re not here. Instead of your death having to dawn on me again and again each morning. I hated waking up and realizing it, but it’s no better waking up knowing you’re gone. Now my first question of the day is – Why aren’t you here?

I miss you

Luce