Pretending

Most of the time I feel like I’m pretending; pretending it didn’t happen; pretending you are just visiting our dad out of state, as you often did; pretending I just haven’t heard from you in a while; pretending we can make more memories together.
Sometimes it’s to maintain composure because “life” doesn’t slow down or stop for those who mourn. Sometimes I think it’s just because I don’t understand that none of my ‘pretendings’ are true.
And then some mornings I wake up, my cheeks wet with tears, knowing I will not be able to pretend that day as the truth sits heavy in my chest.

The truth: you are not here. I don’t get any more time. I must live with how I spent the short time we had. Not enough of it with you. But it would never be enough now, even if we had spent every day from your birth together.

We visited Papaw’s grave one year to the date of his death. You asked me to come with you, “just me and you,” nearly a month in advance.
You cried, and I held you as your body shook. I felt your tears from above me fall onto my head. You said you wished papaw could see you after losing all the weight because you wanted to make him proud. I said, “maybe he can.” And you nodded and said, “yeah.”
As we stood there, neither of us knew that in two months time you would be to his left. How could we have ever known?

This shouldn’t be. You should have been the one to bury me.

I still hear your sweet voice saying, “hey sissy.” And I still feel your big teddy bear hugs; the hugs I need so desperately now; the hugs I will need countless times throughout the remainder of my life.

Your life has shown me I must not be afraid to do something with my passions; to value relationships with family and friends above all else; to seek to spend time with those I love.
Your death has shown me I must do these things now; not when I have more time or money; not when my house is clean enough or pretty enough; not when the conditions are right or favorable or convenient. Now is all we have. “Later” and “tomorrow” are not ours.