One More Day Away
You would think with each passing day, something would get easier. You would think.
But with every passing day, I am one day further from the last time I heard his voice, felt his strong hug, told him, “I love you, son,” for him to reply, “Love you, Mom.” Sometimes that distance, just that one day’s difference, takes my breath away.
The emptiness where Chandler used to be is deep and dark. It feels like I’m falling down a well with no idea if there is a bottom that will stop the fall.
It has to be this way. It can’t sink into each of my trillions of cells and all the hidden crevices of my soul all at once, this new reality. I would be unable to think, to breathe, to continue.
So this is what grief does. It follows you every day, every hour, every minute, reminding you that things must be different. You can’t include him on your family group text. He won’t respond. You can’t expect him to open the front door and run up the stairs. Not any more. You can’t ask him to move his car so you can back out. He won’t be driving it.
Every day, there is something. Everything is a “first,” and I wonder when it will all stop punching me in the gut, stopping me in my tracks, and making me dam up my tears for a more appropriate time.
One more day away from Chandler. You could say, “Well, that’s one more day closer to seeing him again in heaven!” Maybe tomorrow that will work, but today it doesn’t make me feel better. I can’t fathom how far heaven is. But I know how far it feels from Chandler with skin on to today.