Wednesday, February 22, 2006 1:49 AM CST
It's the little things that sneak up on you.
Steeling myself for the 23rd.
Reading Zach's essay about his Dad.
Ready for the hard stuff.
Deep breaths,
you can do this,
I tell myself,
preparing,
anticipating,
bracing.
Then today, taking out my contacts,
I use the last of the contact solution.
It's the bottle that Dave and I both used.
And it's gone now.
Empty.
I sat there staring at the bottle,
the last drops falling to the counter,
as do my tears,
crying,
missing him.
One more thing happening without him.
Life marches on,
mercilessly,
insistently,
continually.
Ready or not.
One more tangible piece of Dave,
gone.
Like his smell on the coat,
fading.
Trying to keep the bits and pieces
I still have,
the parts I can still hold,
like his damn toothbrush,
still in the bathroom,
his shirts,
still in his drawer.
The kids come in
every night,
like they always have,
open Dave's drawer,
grab one of his t-shirts to wear to bed.
We hold what we can.
Love, Shelley
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It's the little things that sneak up on you.
Steeling myself for the 23rd.
Reading Zach's essay about his Dad.
Ready for the hard stuff.
Deep breaths,
you can do this,
I tell myself,
preparing,
anticipating,
bracing.
Then today, taking out my contacts,
I use the last of the contact solution.
It's the bottle that Dave and I both used.
And it's gone now.
Empty.
I sat there staring at the bottle,
the last drops falling to the counter,
as do my tears,
crying,
missing him.
One more thing happening without him.
Life marches on,
mercilessly,
insistently,
continually.
Ready or not.
One more tangible piece of Dave,
gone.
Like his smell on the coat,
fading.
Trying to keep the bits and pieces
I still have,
the parts I can still hold,
like his damn toothbrush,
still in the bathroom,
his shirts,
still in his drawer.
The kids come in
every night,
like they always have,
open Dave's drawer,
grab one of his t-shirts to wear to bed.
We hold what we can.
Love, Shelley
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