An impossible year

Today feels  a little impossible.

It feels impossible that he's been gone for a year already.  That a year ago today, I would witness one of the hardest days my husband has ever had.  That a year ago, our lives changed so abruptly.  We're still in denial a lot of the time.  We hide from what happened.  We don't talk about it, ever, really  So much changed, and yet we march on just the same.

The funny thing about losing a family member suddenly and unexpectedly is the way that people work around that loss, almost as if that person is just on vacation, or some other equivalent.  Almost as though you expect them back, so there's no use in remarking on their absence.  How can that person that was so vital, so full of life be gone for good?  I still can't wrap my brain around it.

And because we don't talk about it at home, talking about all of this here feels kind of wrong.  Like it's some naughty thing to bring up, like I'm trying to gain pity.  For me, I'm a talker.  It's how I process, how I acknowledge, how I accept the senseless.  And death, for all its inevitability, is utterly senseless to me.

I find myself reaching for a conclusion today.  Some words that I can hold close to my heart today, and words that will leave this post "sounding right" to me.  Words that assure that we are doing alright a year later, but that there's still that hole in our hearts.  Words that commemorate in stark detail what our family has been through.  Words that share that my pain is more than loss, but pain that my partner is in pain too.  All of those words.  But I'm not a master word-crafter, and so those words about feelings and emotions just don't flow from these fingers. 

But the truth is, some days I miss him more than others.  And today I miss him an awful lot.