The Days

The days don't get better. It feels worse. Like the reality of it, the realness of it, just keeps barging in as if it to say, "Yes, MFer, this is your life now." I've laid in bed in cried this week, I've sat in the chair and cried this week, I've gone to my hiding spot at work and cried this week. He died on April 8. Tomorrow is six months, half a year. I'm as fully, daily, regularly miserable as I was the first day. I've mowed his grave, and the grave of his father and the plots I bought. I've mowed his grave a second time. I've fallen on my knees in the dark and cried into the wet grass of his grave. Like I'm begging to some god to give me an answer. I know the answer is already there. I kiss the picture of him on the little stand in the dirt. I can't kiss his forehead like I did before. All of that? It's just MyJamie. That's not even counting my father or their father. My grief counselor says my father is something of a life cycle, not happy, but expected in a way. You expect to bury your parents. I was 50. Hell, I have very few friends who haven't already buried at least one parent. My MyJamie? No. Not MyJamie. It's been 15 years since I've planned anything without planning for MyJamie. Groceries, days off, holidays, vacations, afternoons, purchases like a vehicle or my house. How do I buy a car if I don't know if it's comfortable for him to get in and out of? How would I buy a home without taking into his consideration his comfort and space? How do I go on vacation if I don't consider what kind of rooming would be most comfortable for the family? Because now I can't drive to MyFella's house without passing Jamie's grave.