almost a year.

here, across the creek, the daffodils are peeking through winter’s detritus.

at your house, the golden child nurtures all that you planted, while making it his own.

your friends planned a gathering for the day, and my love has arranged things so i won’t be alone.

i miss you.

driving back and forth to chincoteague, my heart hurt. you and i never got to take trips together like we dreamed – no quick trips to the ocean, up north, anywhere. you would have enjoyed that trip with us – walking the trails, time at the beach, a new ice cream place, and the surprising timing of the rocket launch.

your damn dog misses you too. he does better when i remember to talk to him; i think he barks “not the mama!” daily.

i should probably call aunt mary more often, but it’s hard to talk to her sometimes. she misses you terribly, far more than you ever expected.

still have moments when i think i should call to tell you something, and realize i can’t. they aren’t as frequent, but equally devastating.

these are the times that i long to have faith – that there’s something more, that somehow you know you are loved and missed, that somehow things will be okay.

i miss you, still.

almost a year.