I realized moments ago, curled up next to an exhausted and teary Ada as she slipped into sleep, that today marks three months. Three months since the doctor looked at me and said, Now. Three months since my parents held each other after my phone call and hoped both their daughter and first grandson would survive. Three months since I held Benjamin’s tiny weight in my arms.
It was just a day. As normal as a day can be after someone you love dies. I woke up earlier than I would have liked after a not-so-great night of sleep. I played, ate breakfast, watched A Curious George Christmas. I went back to storage and let go of books, crystal decanters, framed photos – things I needed to hold on to a year ago. We looked at dining room tables, hoping to have enough space in our new home to entertain again. We ate lunch and sketched possible layouts for rooms, dreamed up our IKEA list, enjoyed each others’ company. We went to the beach, skimmed through old video tapes to see if they were worth keeping, laughed at the purple suit I wore in one of them. We ate, danced, played some more. I discovered a mouse had been snacking on some granola bars as I cleared shelves of anything with wheat in the ingredients list.
It was a day.
There is a little voice in my head pushing me to feel guilty that I wasn’t – am not – a wreck. A voice telling me that anniversaries of deaths are to be heavy, painful affairs. A voice telling me I’m not grieving hard enough. I can hear it, but I don’t feel it inside. I feel tired, a little hungry, peaceful. I’m okay with feeling okay.
Today, right now, I am okay.
It was just a day.
I love you Ben. Forever.