#Dear bucket

It's your birthday today.

I woke up early, as I have often these days, and whispered happy birthday to you.

Once, you snuck into bed after midnight on my birthday and did the same. You always knew the sweetest thing to do.

The emptiness has become a companion now. I sit with it. We are becoming friends.

Our little trio is rounded out by the lumbering grief, who turns up unexpectedly, sliding in through the door like Kramer.

Healing? No.

Moving on? Never.

Breathing? Yes.

Grateful for every moment? Every card or package or text? Yes.

Some of your friends call me. We talk about life and dogs and baking. We are friends now. You are always there with us, making us smile, whether we talk about you or not.

I know you know I love you. We said it so often. But I hope you know I'll be ok. I am mad. Sad. Guilty. No matter how much we talked, there are a million things left unsaid.

People ask what they can do. And I have no answer because the thing I want most is to have you back.

I still resent having to be strong and resilient. I am waiting for you to come back and trying to move forward knowing you won't.

Will I find you after? Will I be able to introduce you to whomever I love next? Could we all get drinks and laugh? Can I say I'm sorry for not seeing what I see now? Will you wait? Are you waiting?

I love you. Don't forget.

If you were here, I would be worrying over getting you the right gift. You always got me the right one. I'd let you sleep in. Make you breakfast and we'd share it in bed.

I am here. Alone in bed. Not very hungry.

They say I am doing well.

Growing

Introspecting

Working (On work and myself)

Being

Mindful

I would still give it all for one more hug. Another squeaky kiss. One more moment.

Some days

I'm sorry

I move about and forget I've lost you

I do things to move forward

I rearrange the furniture

Make meals for one

Download a dating app

Call friends

It is strange

almost always something tiny will catapult me back to depression and remembering you are never coming home

I am here.

I talk to you. I told you the TV was broken. You did not fix it and I could not so I bought a Roku. I vented about work and you listened. I moved your t-shirts, you silently accused me to stealing hangers again. You never respond, but I know what you will say.

I love you. Don't forget.

Happy birthday.