June 2

When it first happens, you mark the time in terms of hours and then days. 12 hours ago, she walked out the front door on her way to work. 24 hours ago, she was sleeping in this bed with me. 1 week ago, she took JT to Target for a quick errand. They bought socks and laundry soap. A month ago, we went out to breakfast for a family celebration of Mother's Day.

And then it's no longer a day or a week or a month and so you mark the time in larger chunks. I've done 48 loads of laundry since she left. I am slicing a tomato from the plants we put in the ground together just a few months ago. I've made 80 pots of coffee since she left. And then you need to buy a new package of coffee filters and you idly wonder, as you put them away, after 80 more pots of coffee, will it feel any better? Will I hurt less?

Soon the season changes and new markers appear. It's the first day of school and you take your son's picture, remembering that you did this last year with her by your side. You wake up on Christmas morning and your son is excited and happy and you think about the year before, when you played Santa together. Your 6 year old turns 7 and you remember the night he was born and how your twosome felt so complete on that night you became a threesome. You think to yourself: I still can't believe this has happened.

Today marks 365 days since she left. Most days, it hurts less than it did one year ago. But the pain is now a familiar landscape to me. Not comfortable, but present, always present. I wonder how will it feel at two years? At ten? Where will I be then? Who will I be then?

And today I hope that some day June 2nd will pass right by me with no memory of what this day means; of the chasm and loss it represents. Some day.