Oct. 2nd, 2009

One year ago tonight, I told him I'd be back around 9 the next morning, kissed him good night and left him sitting on the edge of his bed, eating his dialysis-delayed dinner.  I'd sat with him in the Christian Northeast ER until 3 that morning, and waked up to his call from MoBap shortly after he'd gotten to his bed there a couple hours later, so I went home and crashed.

The phone started ringing at 4 the next morning, but it took a several tries on both lines to wake me; the social worker said he was having difficulties and I should get any family and come down.  He was gone by the time we got there.

Despite the grim diagnosis, and the awful weeks since we'd got it, he was still making plans, and as engaged as he could manage in being alive, so I went to sleep a married woman, not looking forward to the future, but knowing there WAS one.  I woke up--and our future had died.

I'm getting used to not having him with me, and much of it's even pretty good, but there's still a huge pain in my throat when I think about him.  I just don't do it so much any more.  Life layers itself on top of the wounds and covers the scars with insulation so they don't hurt so sharply when they're bumped.

One year without him, and I have to dig a bit to touch the pain--but it's still there, and I wish for the bright days back, when we had everything we ever really needed--and it was Us. 

I wish they weren't just memories, now. 

I miss him and I wish.

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