Grief Burst Number Whatever

Last night during therapy, which I affectionately call my cult, I had one last grand and glorious grief burst. Snot, crying, everything one could hope for in grief. My man chose me. Time and time again, he chose to be with me. He would choose me over others. He would choose my time, my car, my hand to hold. He would choose to lay down beside me during a nap. He would choose to go with me. He smiled at me, he smiled because of me. If he saw me, he would smile that I was there. He chose me to love, and I loved him. With everything we had, we were the best of friends. Just about the only person he would choose over me was a niece he called The Baby. Everyone knew she got first choice when she was around.Oh how he smiled when he saw her. How he took her hand. It was so funny to see him leave us all for The Baby. But that's how he did everyone else for me. He chose me. I miss it. I miss him. I miss who we were, all of us, together. I miss my family. I miss the family he made for me. His love, his hand hold, his smile, his giggle. This Radical Acceptance is a bitch.