two years? really?
It's been two years since you passed on
I'm wishing you were here, but I know you're gone
Still sitting here, all alone
I've gotta find the strength to finally move on
You know, I don't remember crying for Joyce the day I found out she'd died. I do remember rather numbly going over to the computer and telling Flar, Tash and Kai that my cousin had just died. I may have broken down after that, I honestly don't know.
Then the funeral planning started, and words like "passed away", "died", and "complications" began to sink in. Thirty-two years old. SHE WAS THIRTY-TWO YEARS OLD.
The reality of it all began to hit me, I'm not sure when, exactly. I really wouldn't hear her voice again. No more hugs. No more midnight talks. No more buttery nipples. No more soul-cleansing crying sessions. No more her. No more us.
And I cried every day for a month. And then at random, usually very inopportune moments, even up to the moment I'm posting this. I've come to accept the fact that I will never be over her passing. The tears will come when they come, and there's nothing I can do about it. Deal.
I started counting - "it's been three days" ... "it's been a week" ... two weeks, a month, six months, a year, seventeen months. What am I counting, anyway? There's no finality to missing her - it's not like there's a finish line in sight. Counting? Counting down to what?
Has it really been two years, today?
Really?
Despite the futility of mourning, there will always be a black cloth draped over the month of March.
Two years. Jesus.
I can watch you for hours with my eyes closed
When I'm out on this road, I'm never alone
I'm walking with you hand in hand
But there's only one set of prints in the sand
I can watch you for hours with my eyes closed
I'm wishing you were here, but I know you're gone
Still sitting here, all alone
I've gotta find the strength to finally move on
You know, I don't remember crying for Joyce the day I found out she'd died. I do remember rather numbly going over to the computer and telling Flar, Tash and Kai that my cousin had just died. I may have broken down after that, I honestly don't know.
Then the funeral planning started, and words like "passed away", "died", and "complications" began to sink in. Thirty-two years old. SHE WAS THIRTY-TWO YEARS OLD.
The reality of it all began to hit me, I'm not sure when, exactly. I really wouldn't hear her voice again. No more hugs. No more midnight talks. No more buttery nipples. No more soul-cleansing crying sessions. No more her. No more us.
And I cried every day for a month. And then at random, usually very inopportune moments, even up to the moment I'm posting this. I've come to accept the fact that I will never be over her passing. The tears will come when they come, and there's nothing I can do about it. Deal.
I started counting - "it's been three days" ... "it's been a week" ... two weeks, a month, six months, a year, seventeen months. What am I counting, anyway? There's no finality to missing her - it's not like there's a finish line in sight. Counting? Counting down to what?
Has it really been two years, today?
Really?
Despite the futility of mourning, there will always be a black cloth draped over the month of March.
Two years. Jesus.
I can watch you for hours with my eyes closed
When I'm out on this road, I'm never alone
I'm walking with you hand in hand
But there's only one set of prints in the sand
I can watch you for hours with my eyes closed