Today I am 32 years old, and in so many ways, I don't feel it. I still get excited about going to the candy store. I have a tendency to dress like I'm five. And I have no idea how my 401k works. Then something will remind me of you and I feel a hundred years older. The door to my grief swings open and I am swept away. I am like the 75-year-old widows in the bereavement group the hospital set me up with. Except we wear different shoes. Theirs are thick-soled and unabashedly comfortable-looking. They cover every inch of skin. My shoes are strappy and offer no arch support. They're not the most comfortable, but they're not terrible either. The ladies in the group talk about their 50+ years of marriage, their kids and their grandkids. I tell them that you and I were married for a year and that we really wanted kids. It's clear that I'm not 75 either.
I don't plan beyond the next two weeks. I struggle with verbs. I say things like, "My husband is a software engineer." I don't know how to answer when new people ask how long we've been married. I look down at my hands so they won't see me cry.
I think about all the times I asked you if you would still be with me if I was a zombie, and the way you always said yes without a moment's hesitation. I'm sorry I told you I wasn't sure what I would do if the situation was reversed. In the movies, staying with your zombie lover is always a futile effort. But now that you're gone, I get it. I would still be with you. It would be worth it to be together.
I kept my promise. I didn't sleep alone in our apartment for the first three months. A different friend stayed over each night. Sometimes we'd go to dinner, sometimes we'd just watch TV. When I'm alone, sometimes the silence is deafening. I miss the sound of us. I miss hearing you eat five bowls of raisin bran. I miss hearing your mechanical keyboard at the desk next to mine. I miss hearing about Project 1999. I would take zombie you—any you—any day.
I used to joke that it didn't matter if I died in a car accident because then I'd get to be with you again. Sophie told me at some point she'd have to start worrying and taking that seriously. So I stopped saying things like that out loud. I try not to even think it but sometimes I can't help it.
I know I promised I'd keep living my beautiful life for you, but it's hard. I've gone hiking a bunch and I've been swimming and eating good food. I pretend like you're still going to bust me when I'm in the kitchen late at night eating chips. It makes me laugh. Oh, and I wore the skirt you liked to Lu and Jesse's wedding. We still have to get them a wedding gift. I want to sign the card for the both of us, but is that weird?
Anyway, I'm trying my best. Over the past three months:
I drank a bajillion lava flows because did you know they taste like delicious milkshakes? The fact that I could drink a bajillion (read: two and a half) and not feel anything makes me think they were, in fact, milkshakes.
We got this for dessert at Mama's Fish House. You wouldn't have liked it because of all the chocolate, but isn't it pretty? p.s. I've had better fish at Nick's.
We celebrated the Fourth of July on the Leclair's new rooftop deck. The view of the fireworks was great, and we didn't have to deal with any crazy crowds. Grace brought sparklers because they reminded her of you. What a sweetie.
One morning we had brunch in a greenhouse which I know you would have loved.
I don't know what I'll do when the days are shorter, the light slips away faster and the darkness comes quicker. That's further than two weeks away, so I'll think more about that later.
I still can't believe you're gone.