It’s been three years. Three years ago, early in the morning, I got a call telling me you were gone. I’d only gone home to feed the cats and get some rest. The hospital was close and the chairs weren’t comfortable for sleeping. I could have been there when you passed, but I wasn’t. I have to live with that.

Grief doesn’t go away. Not really. It settles in your heart and you learn to accept it, or you don’t, but you still carry it with you either way. It lingers and occasionally flares up, like tendonitis or arthritis.

I’m getting better at preparing for today. I’m getting better at avoiding triggers, and identifying activities that soothe the ache. It took three years and a lot of conversations with my therapist, but I’ve made progress.

I’m not better. I’m not healed. I’m better at coping of the chronic condition of missing you.

I still miss you a lot.