It has been exactly six months since I have been able to breathe without having to actively tell myself to do so.
Six months of horrific, debilitating pain, of emptiness, of walking around in circles trying to figure out how to exist in a world without you in it.
Through milestones and holidays that you were supposed to be here for. Through seemingly normal days. Through everything.
My shattered heart sees you everywhere, in every nook and cranny of my life, but it is like a strange out of body experience, unlike anything I am able to articulate.
There is nothing I wouldn’t give to spend one more minute to just be in your presence, to get a mama hug, to have an argument about something stupid, to see your smile or watch you make the dogs crazy.
Instead, I sit beside your grave and search the sky for signs of you, trying to convince myself that you are enjoying the peace and quiet of the beautiful cemetery, knowing you have loved ones with you.
This does not get better. It does not get easier. I will never get used to it. I will, so I am told, learn to live alongside the memory of you.
But for today I will just try to put one foot in front of the other, even if they feel like they are cast in cement.
Six months of hell.