Grief, One Year On

365 days, an orbit around the sun and 8760 hours later. It doesn’t feel easier, just different. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve walked into the living room, hoping to see you there. Or the times I’ve called home, desperate to hear your voice. I talk about you every day, I flick through pictures but not the videos. I can’t do that just yet.

You were so animated and full of love, watching them is a kicker all over again. Call me crazy, but I need you like a heart needs a beat, now more than ever. I so desperately want to make you a mug of tea and just talk to you about everything. The good, bad and ugly. Just like old times. What I’d give to dance with you and to watch you laugh.

The world keeps moving, but life is duller without you in it. I spent six months in therapy, trying to rip off the makeshift bandaid I’d covered you up with. I was gasping to get so much off my chest, I still am, but it’s a simmer I can mostly manage. What we had was timeless, a once in this lifetime kind of love, a love that the movies don’t tell you about. Your loyalty was fierce, your friendship was unique and your love was wholesome.

When you died, you took a piece of me with you, the me that will always belong with you. My mind won’t let me dream of you, but instead, you show up in sunsets, floating feathers, yellow roses and stray cats. On the days where I have nothing left to give, I can feel you cheering me on, reminding me that I can make magic happen.

Grief isn’t something you get over, manageable sure, but I’ll never get over you. What hurts the most is that you’re making exciting plans for me, but not with me to celebrate them. In return, I promise to celebrate you every day of my life, to see every day through your optimistic lens and to chase those crazy dreams of mine. Here’s to loving you and never letting your memory fade, no matter how far we are.

Love always,



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