• 21Dec

    I woke this morning to the sound of the computer. I wandered bleary eyed out into the living room to find Benjamin hard at his Civilization game (a game his father taught him) and oblivious to the rest of the world. I whispered something about it being awfully early and he just smiled and waved at me. I stumbled back to bed figuring he’d be just fine. Then the memories rolled in. I remember Dan telling me of the many Saturday mornings he woke up early (5 or 6) to watch a cartoon before heading back to bed. I remember him staying awake for hours playing on his computer after everyone else had gone to sleep. I remember waking up at 2 am, noticing that he was still missing and getting up to find him still locked in some life or death struggle with a machine that failed to remind him of the time.
    So as I crawled back into bed this morning I rolled over to look at his side and grumbled about Benjamin being “his kid”. Then I noticed again that his side of the bed was empty and realized that he wasn’t just out playing with his computer, or off to work already, . . and the pain washed over me all over again. Why isn’t he here to chuckle at my joke and cuddle me back to sleep? Why isn’t he here to see his children grow up? Why was I left behind? How do I make it through another day? And I find myself blindly clutching a pillow, a blanket, anything; trying to find some solace in the “feel” of something substantial, trying to get a grasp on the life that is still revolving around me, trying to find something that will bring me back to the present, the here and now.
    Not all days start like that, for which I am grateful. But I do often find myself struggling to bring myself back to reality, back to the way normal people view the day. Even a conversation with a stranger in the parking lot will remind me of just how much my perspective has been saturated by the loss of Dan. I miss him so.

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