The weather is turning cooler here and I stare at the sky as I walk my dogs. Up and down the block, sometimes around, I stumble over the bumps in the sidewalk because I’m mesmerized by the endless blue sky and the accompanying breeze. My Daydream hangs on my back in the carrier and my Sunshine alternately lags behind or runs ahead. Twice a day, every day. A new routine has been born.
I think of Jen when I’m walking, wondering where she is. How close or how far from me is she really? I talk about her often enough that my Sunshine asks if Aunt Jen will come watch her swim or some other activity. I can’t stop my voice from catching before I reply.
Soon my kids will be dressed up, walking from door to door with their little buckets. Over four years has passed since Jen died and I’m still lost and frightened. Sometimes my life feels incomplete, worthless without her and I am quickly angry at myself for that. I want to flush those feelings from my system. They won’t budge. I want to run away and be alone to wait for her. I don’t want to have to explain to my children why she died and how our family fell apart afterward. Everything is blank sometimes. I just want to hear her voice. Some kind of reassurance that she is fine. Fine? What does that even mean? I have no idea.
Self portrait taken the day she died as I waited in the hospital, a few feet from her bed. I was so tired I fell asleep on the couch. The staff needed to clean her so everyone left the room and I was asleep on the couch. Right before I dozed off I said “I’m right here Jen. I’m right here.” I awoke to beeping, madness and my husband’s hand on my shoulder shaking me.
