Loretta Was Here

It's taken a year for me to even begin to accept that no, Fernando doesn't live in this house anymore. He lives in Our Father's house. A lot of things that used to matter really don't anymore. Nothing matters the same as it once did. Whether it matters more or less, it matters differently now. Words don't mean the same. The first to morph were simple words like "ok" and "fine" whose meanings changed immediately never again to mean the same. Words like grief and widow have become part of who I am, rather than concepts that affect other people. Even the feeling of grief itself was and is new, raw and more real - with a depth of feeling it never had before. Time loses all meaning. Its passing is measured in before and after, and all the months since before have been jumbled and confusing. I barely remember the summer of 2016, save for tiny pockets of peace in a sea of turbulent emotions. Things are dated by the passage of time - 'well, ...

It happens every evening as the sun starts to sink on the horizon, making the sky glow a soft yellow gold. It never seems to matter what I've been doing before that time, but as the day fades into night the sadness sets in. And I cry. Of course crying is not relegated to the night time; would that it were. But something about the setting sun and the end of another day without you by my side makes it impossible for me to stay composed. There's no trigger. There's no suddenly sad thought. I just cry. And I miss you