Maybe grief settles, but mostly I feel made anew—the anxious awe of a newborn yet without the innocence that makes things soft.
It’s been almost 15 months and somehow the now—not the then—is what’s hardest. The resounding not here is what hurts most.
In the empty moments, in moments of panic and crumble, I try to breathe and remember. And sometimes I do—I breathe and remember—but sometimes I burn and struggle in the impossibility of being in love with a life that fades.