It is funny how birth and death are so closely connected. When a baby is born I often hear parents talk about their new bundle of joy in terms of days, weeks and months. "Oh my little ............ (fill in the blank with a name) is 18 weeks old, or ........... is 21 months old. Well, as a widow I do the same. Today it is 12 weeks. For 12 weeks I have counted the hours and the days. I have tried to stand tall while trying to hold on to the pieces of you that I have. And each Friday I am reminded of April 29th. Each Friday I am checking off another week where my world does not feel complete, does not feel whole. Each time I raise that number from 3 days to 1 week, from 3 weeks to a month, from 1 month to 2.... it brakes a piece of who I am. I guess I am starting to dislike the calendar. I am disliking father time. Time it has caused this great big void in my life that no other human can fill.
And then there are the moments when I feel like , " Wow I have made it 5 weeks and I am still standing". I find strength in the ability day after day, week after week, to get out of bed (what ever bed I am in as it is not MY bed without you) and face the day. But that calendar continues to haunt me. It is like a reminder of what I lack to have now. 12 weeks ~ 12 weeks without hearing your voice. 12 weeks without smelling that awesome mix of soap, Old Spice deodorant, and a touch of shave lotion. 12 weeks of not having love notes in the kitchen. 12 weeks of having to pay the bills on my own. 12 weeks of without touching your skin. 12 weeks of being YOUR voice. What a long 12 weeks it has been. I replay that last moment we had together. I was resting my head on your chest singing our wedding song (I Will) to you as I listened to your heart beat drift off to another place. And although I had my head on you, I felt you behind me. How weird. And so I guess you do the same. In heaven you must be saying , "For 12 weeks I have watched over her". I endlessly miss you and completely love you.
Around the world and back again~