One Year Since

Unlike planes, memories rarely fly in formation.

A year ago.

Just hours after I’d held his hand. Told him I loved him. That I’d see him in the morning. To breathe easier and rest up.

Then the call. The tears before she said it. The ending I’d hoped wouldn’t be written that day.

“He’s gone.” A year ago.

I still feel the razor wire in my throat. The dull throb in my ears. The sting of the carpet burns after falling to my knees. 

“The doctor said we’d talk about more treatment tomorrow.” A year ago.

Then came the responsibilities. To the kids. Mom. The family. Arrangements for what needed to happen after he left had all been made with a level of care I don’t think I’m capable of.

“It’s still all so hard.” A year ago.

At the graveside, Pastor Dale said this would be a year of grieving firsts. The first anniversary with just a picture. First Christmas without his laughter. First moments alone in his workshop.

“I don’t want to sit in Grandpa’s chair.” A year ago.

 It took me 338 days to visit his marker at the cemetery. It wasn’t the sadness that kept me from going. Or fear. Or busyness.

“I wasn’t sure where it was and then it was right there and caught me off guard.” A year ago.

Today’s the first, round marker of the time that’s passed since Dad died in contrast with the usual jagged reminders like memories rising unbidden; like the need for advice that makes me forget for a minute; like the echoes of him that reverberate in the most everyday of moments.

A year ago.