Yes, you’ve been gone for two years. Even typing that sentence feels unfathomable to me. Maybe it’s because I still talk to you in the little moments. Okay, maybe in the bigger moments too. Maybe it’s because when I’m driving around in my car, I can hear you singing along to Zeppelin or the Doobie Brothers, and I imagine how much you would have loved driving around Montana with me. Maybe I’m still mad that I had so many years stolen away by your disease. Maybe it’s because I still don’t think I would have traded those moments for anything because they are cherished, and you raised me to believe that everything happens for a reason. Maybe because I grew up knowing that time was valuable and finite I tried to etch every moment into my brain, terrified that whenever you would leave it wouldn’t be enough. Maybe I’m mad that even though I knew these things, it is still so bitterly raw realizing that I didn’t carve quite hard enough. That time is done. It doesn’t seem fair, and my skin crawls at even thinking that. I had you for 25 wonderful years. I am blessed beyond belief that I was your daughter, and I’m still upset that I don’t get more. I will never come to terms with that.
I’ve been gointo therapy and trying to work through the fact that I won’t get to talk football, books, or music with you anymore. I’ve been trying to understand that I won’t get a voicemail whenever we have an upcoming meteor shower. I’ve been trying to look through a lense that always reminds me that life can be short, and being authentically happy is the most important thing. I have been attempting to live my life for the last 704+ days that would have made you beaming proud. I’m still working on it, and you have my promise that I’ll keep at it. Everyday.
I miss the shit out of you, but I’m doing pretty dang good. Just like you would want.
