One year ago we said goodbye, but you were already gone.
We have missed you every day since, all three hundred sixty-five of them.
You died, and with you, a very real part of me died too. I am still trying to find words for this, for that which is lost. And also for that which I've gained because there is good and beauty here too, mixed in with the tears and the pain.
I am still searching for my words, but last week, I read these. They give language for what I could not express, for what the past year has felt like without you.
“All these things I recognize. I remember delighting in them—trees, art, house, music, pink morning sky, work well done, flowers, books. I still delight in them. I’m still grateful. But the zest is gone. The passion is cooled, the striving quieted, the longing stilled. My attachment is loosened. No longer do I set my heart on them. I can do without them. They don’t matter. Instead of rowing, I float. The joy that comes my way I savor. But the seeking, the clutching, the aiming, is gone. I don’t suppose anyone on the outside notices. I go through my paces. What the world gives, I still accept. But what it promises, I no longer reach for. I’ve become an alien in the world, shyly touching it as if it’s not mine. I don’t belong any more. When someone loved leaves home, home becomes mere house.”
I don't have many words today Lily, not because my love for you is small, but because it is so large that I don't know how to contain it in language.
But I will say this: I miss you Lily Mae. I love you. We all do.