I'm not ready for this. I'm not ready for it to be almost a year. I'm not ready for the hills to be green to remind me of Bob's initial diagnosis, of our drives over Highway 84, of all the doctors appointments, of all the chemo, of all the emergency room visits.
I'm not ready.
But the calendar doesn't care.
It's coming, anyway. The rain is turning the hills green. The tears are falling down my cheeks when I least expect them. My heart gets heavy even when I don't want it to be. I am tired. I am sad. I am overwhelmed by how much I miss him sometimes.
And the calendar still ticks off the days.
Bug is almost as tall as me now. Peanut is a moody teenager. They are kids without a father. I am a single mother. We are a family of three. We're still figuring that out. Some days we get it right. Some days we fuck it up.
Time flows along and takes us in its stream.
I keep buying flowers. Bug keeps arranging them. They keep dying. Will I stop? I don't think so. They're beautiful, he seems to enjoy it, and they keep us in the moment. They help us hold onto this slice of time.
Peanut keeps riding. Copper, her latest challenge, is teaching her how to be in the moment, too. A good horse will do that for you. It's not always easy to take that kind of feedback from another person, but from an animal, it feels like it's connected to your soul. I think that's what she's getting when she rides.
I still feel like there are two of me and am wondering if I'll ever be merged back together. The Grieving Me still feels separate from the Me Who Goes On About Her Life. I can switch between the two pretty seamlessly, at times, but not always. I don't feel broken, just like there are two very distinct parts to me, and I wonder if it will always be this way. If so, I wonder if I should get a separate ID for Grieving Me, maybe a condo near the beach. She's quite fond of the ocean. Me Who Goes On About Her Life, on the other hand, is desperately in need of a convertible, which, truth be told, wouldn't be the worst thing to happen to Grieving Me.