4 Years

...4 things I need to tell you...

1.) I met a man, fell in love, and got married.

I never expected to date again, let alone get married.

I know you would want this new life and new love for me. I would want it for you if I had been the one to die, leaving you behind and alone. We even spoke about it on several occasions. Doesn't stop me from feeling like I've cheated on you.

Most days I'm happy in my new life.

No.

Every day I'm happy in my new life.

Some days, though, I imagine living in a parallel universe where you're still alive, we're still together, and I've never met this amazing man who loves me even while I still love you. Maybe loves me because I still love you.

He's an amazing man, Stephen. I think you'd have been great friends.

2.) I have two beautiful children.

They are smart, funny, amazing, mischievous, talented, imaginative, loving, kind, giving, brash, loud, quiet, shy, outgoing, girls that I adore with every ounce of my being. They fill my days and nights with chaos and joy, with running dialogs about purple monkeys flying at midnight and unicorns farting rainbows, with subtle winks that are anything but subtle, tears of pain and frustration, tears of joy and accomplishment, giggles and laughter that bounce around rooms, and smiles. Smiles that can teach Times Square a thing or two about lighting up a space.

You and I wanted children. We wanted six because we were insane like that. After eight years of trying, we finally gave up on that dream and chose a different dream. That last dream we shared died when you died. So much of me died when you died. I did, eventually, create a new dream. And I've been lucky enough to have this dream include these two wonderful girls that I look forward to watching grow into fabulous women.

I wish we had the opportunity to raise children together. I still think we'd have made beautiful and talented, but blind as bat, children. I believe you would have been a marvelous father. Somehow, though, I feel you smile over my shoulder when I watch the girls play, when I watch them succeed at something they've worked hard to master. As if you know, as if you watch over them during the times I can't.

3.) I've kept our house but I don't live there anymore.

I've moved to the suburbs. In an HOA. Remember how I used to rail against HOA's? Turns out, it's not so bad. I've met a lot of mother's of kids the girls are friends with in the neighborhood. We've become a mommy-network, relying on each other when some unexpected occurrence happens. In the process, I've made some truly amazing friends. I really would have hated it here without kids, though. In that much, I was correct.

Our house suffered some damage in a storm about three years ago. As a result I removed the old deck we had been trying to destroy for years. I replaced it with an extension of the roof for a covered porch. Ran electricity out for an overhead fan. It's gorgeous. Then I moved out. Still haven't redone the kitchen. The one room we always wanted to tackle but something else would pop up. I'll remodel the kitchen before I move back. Once the kids move out for college, Doug and I plan to sell his house and move back there. For the time being, it's difficult for me to even walk through it. Even with someone else's furniture filling the rooms, I still expect to see you walk around a corner. Eventually, I expect, that will wear off. Four years hasn't been long enough, though.

4.) I think about you every day.

It doesn't always hurt anymore. Frequently I still get that quick stab through the heart, my breath will catch for a moment, then my heart rate and breathing return to normal. But more and more the thought of you rises, passes through me, and nestles back into my very marrow. Memories of you are a part of me that flow and ebb, pumping through my veins, bouncing along with white and red blood cells. Missing you has become less of an assault. It is more familiar. At four years, it should be more familiar.

I think about how absolutely hilarious you'd find me now. Mother of two, living in suburbia, president of the summer swim team, driving my white Camry with red racing stripes, music always blaring. Same girl, different woman. Same woman, different girl.

I always wear at least once piece of jewelry you gave me. Sometime I still wear your wedding ring around my neck. It makes me feel closer to you when I feel small and insignificant. The baby blanket of the adult widow.

I talk about you. To Doug and the girls. Our youngest decided long ago that you are her guardian angel. If you can guard us, I know you'll watch out for the girls. You know where my heart always leads. And they are my heart now.

I miss you still. I always will. But the missing of you has changed. As I have changed. I love you. That will never change. I will always love you.