It's been almost three years since Bob died, and it feels like he was just here.
And it feels like he's been gone forever.
Every year, every day, it's different. And I miss him.
I remember in those first months after Bob died, widows and widowers more years into this journey seeming like seasoned pros to me, so wise, but they always had this thread of commonality—there remained this instant access to the raw emotion of their loss. Years out. YEARS.
It didn't matter if they were happily remarried, had remained single, or what their relationship status was, so much as it did that they had this loss and this journey and it was part of them.
It doesn't mean grief defines you in a negative way, per se—though I guess it can. But just as any tragedy can be faced with courage, losing your partner gets incorporated into who you are in some way. It's never NOT a part of you. You don't "get over it."
What I find myself doing is learning where my loss fits, how to breathe through the waves of grief—that come less often, but still do come and deserve to be honored—and what it means to have this duality of love lost and love found living together in my heart so comfortably—I never expected that would be the case, by the way (love again? Ha!)
My life feels very chaptered as I reflect, and I'm thankful for the ability to see how this next chapter holds hope, love, dreams, and possibility. I have been an incredibly fortunate woman.
And still, as this month arrived, I find myself weeping, sobbing, missing. So I make space and learn, keep learning that it's okay to need this time and this space to ride this wave.