Our third wedding anniversary is coming up, a week from today. A wonderful day, an occasion to celebrate. We probably won't. What to do, where to go. Who to leave Dylan with. Money. Too many variables to consider. We'll be together, at home, our comfortable place. It is number three. There will be so many more, as long as we respect the light, feed it, stoke it. As long as we remember we have this comfortable place to always come back to. I will cook, something special, at home. It's where we belong right now, you know?
I will focus all my might on number three. Because next week also brings number two. Two years of being a fatherless daughter. Two years of missing the man who I need, still. Two years since the illness, two years since the sickness, two years since goodbye. The first year was numb. This year I have felt every bump. The novocaine is gone in year two. The pain is not. It is still dark in that space, the place he used to inhabit. All the light in my life couldn't fill that empty space.
I have written his story a million times in my head, the story of the end. I'm writing it right now, always adding, always remembering. Maybe this year I will put it down. Maybe this year I will share it, for others. For myself. Next week I will try to write it out loud. Maybe it will be enough novocaine to get me to number three. And then maybe I will write it again.