How did the happiest day turn out to be the saddest day?
How do I go there? How do I tell my story—our story—when I must feel so much pain to tell it completely? Sitting still long enough to write about it means acknowledging the ache, the low-grade hum of this relentless grief. It is a hurt I have never known. Yet how do I describe such pain without describing the happiness? Without that happiness, I would be left with nothing.
I moved the girls to Florida, to be closer to my family. This house is mine, I think. This skin holds my body, but this body does not feel mine. To feel my body, this house, would be to feel reality and, this, I am afraid to do.
Today, for the first time, I woke up looking for Erik next to me in my bed and, of course, he wasn’t there. He wasn’t there to hold me or make love to me or tell me that this was all going to be OK. And, now, I am afraid of getting close. I have pushed everyone away. I am afraid of getting close to anyone for fear of losing what I love the most.
