I still remember the day Sean died in almost pristine clarity. It’s funny how that works. I can’t remember what I read in my macroeconomics textbook last night, but I can remember every agonizing second of waiting for Mike to call me back. When we got off the phone, I slipped into the passenger side of my car and I screamed.
Lately I just miss him.
Maybe I’ve finally stepped into the acceptance stage.
It’s been four years, but every time it snows I still think of the night of his wake. How that room was the very last place I wanted to be, but the only place I could be. How we slipped and slid our way from the funeral home, cars packed with friends who would’ve otherwise walked in the storm. How, in the morning, the roads were barely clear but we had a funeral to get through. How Sean wasn’t buried ’til the spring, and we had to do it all over again.
Only that time, we stood outside and I cried my contacts out.
I still can’t look at pictures of him. There’s a brief flash of delighted recognition, then a hard pinch and I have to look away. Because this person who was so vibrant and colored so many other people’s lives is just… gone.
Maybe I haven’t accepted anything.