What I Would Say Now

I miss you

You’ve been gone for seven years now, but it feels like longer. I still remember the days following your passing from our life. The way the clouds pulled together in anger and rain fell from the sky like bullets hitting the ground, as if the whole world was grieving with me. There was comfort in that. The sun did not show face for days and I was glad for the greyness of the world around me. To me, the whole world grieved you and still it was not enough.

I got married nine months after you died, and it wasn’t the same. I had an invitation made up for you that I still have to this day. A save the date and invitation printed off with your name and address. I couldn’t make myself take you off the list, like I’d be erasing you somehow. I would not have been able to stand up against the weight of the acknowledgement that you would not be there. I wanted you there more than anyone knew. More than I ever wanted to express to you because I didn’t want you to be sad about missing it, knowing that the cancer would take you before. But I missed you.

I miss you.

On early mornings when the birds sing their songs to the sunrise. On sunny days when the butterflies dance in the light breeze. On fall evenings walking in the backyard, smelling the change of seasons. On winter days when the aroma of coffee lingers, an unfinished puzzle scattered across the kitchen table. I miss you in all the big moments, but in all the little moments too. For what is life if not little moments stacked upon each other to make big ones?

I have two daughters now. You’d adore them. I kiss them three times on both cheeks and call them your kisses. I never understood why you kissed us multiple times at once. In my ignorant and annoyed youth, I always wanted to pull away after the first kiss, but you held onto my face in persistence. I get it now. I understand, now, that one kiss just wasn’t enough. That life’s too short to give only one kiss at a time. I want to smother my daughters in kisses, and I understand, now, that you wanted to do the same to me. That you would have held me there for the rest of my life if you could have.

I miss you.

I miss your kisses. I miss the smell of coffee on your breath. I miss the feeling of your hand gently patting mine. I miss walking down the stairs of my parents’ house in the early morning hours to find you in the kitchen with your mug and toast, staring out the sliding glass door. You always had something to show me out there. A bird that decided to visit or butterfly that stayed awhile longer or flower that bloomed overnight. You wanted to share these things with me.

You wanted me.

When you got sick, I helped drain some of the fluid off your lungs while you stayed with us. One tiring night you stared at the ceiling and asked me with a broken voice “Why is this happening? I hate this”. I cried for a long time that night. My heart held onto those words with sadness and confusion. I didn’t know why. I still don’t know why. But I wish I would have laid next to you and patted your hand. I wish I would have kissed you multiple times. I wish I would have stayed longer at the sliding glass door the next morning and asked you to point out more things. I wish I would have told you that all the ways you loved me was more than enough.

I wish I would have told you how much I was going to miss you.

Let’s continue the conversation:

1. What would you say now to someone you lost?

2. How have you seen yourself grow from the loss of a loved one?

3. How do you carry their memory with you?