I don't know if I'll post Thursday. It will be three years that day. Three years since the children and I and our friend gathered around Bob's bed and said goodbye.
I can't explain that time. The three years.
I could tell you how many days it's been (1,094 as of right now), but it doesn't feel like days. And this hasn't been a completely linear journey.
I could tell you how many hours—26,256, roughly, as I can't bring myself to pull out the death certificate and do that exact math.
And it doesn't feel like the hours, either. Unless I can write a defining moment from each hour on a post-in and stick it to an enormous wall. There would be spirals of time.
And then the tracks. They aren't marked equally in hours or days.
Some tracks of time have moved faster than others. Some stopped altogether. He stopped that day. Dead. Stopped. Part of me stopped that day, too. Same track. How could it not? Twenty-one years together, you're going to leave some of yourself on that track.
The rest of me started on another track, moving at my own pace—still have some of the same luggage (a carry-on, I think; added a new bag or two along the way, boy did I ever).
And the kids kept going. They kept me going. Tracks of their own, but merging in and out with mine.
Grief is a funny thing; not stages like we've been told—it goes in circles. It wraps around itself. It repeats sometimes. It skips parts. Jumps ahead. Comes back. Asshole will drop you down. And then you won't see it for weeks, it seems. Or maybe that track runs parallel in a way that gets hidden behind the bushes once in a while so you see the scenery on other stretches life brings past.
But I don't know about Thursday.
I did give up predicting things three years ago; I did not, however, give up.
The sayers of nay, and oh how they say, were so wrong that day and many a day and that is okay. Fuck 'em.
It's all downhill until you look up, you know. That's why I bought the house at the bottom; I like to be able to see where I'm headed.