The Second 365 Days

Two years.  


I'm officially a widow of two years.  


No longer in the rawness of grief, the numbness of disbelief or the haziness of confusion that encompassed the first 365 days of my widowhood, my ability to function as a "civilian" increases everyday. Do I like that fact? Yes and no. Yes, it is good to know that I have already run many miles of the grief marathon (and enjoyed it about as much as I enjoy actual running). And yet, the further away I get from the day Chris died, the further away I get from our life together. His voice becomes a little less memorable, his smile is harder to conjure up, his laugh rings out less often in my mind and his touch is barely recalled on my skin. This is the reality of death. This is the reality I shake my fist at in frustration and anger.


There are so many times that I wish I could sit down with Chris for just one more conversation. It would be a super loooooong conversation maybe lasting a few days. I would do anything to hear his voice again and his clear opinion on something (even though I can pretty much guess what his thoughts would be on many topics). I long to update him on mundane daily events, on the kids' milestones, on my own personal growth over the last two years. I would especially love to share with him everything that has happened during the second 365 days of my widowhood. Last year was about survival and the denial of time marching forward. This year was about moving towards the future with a glimmer of hope that happiness will reveal itself in my life.


If I could have one more conversation with Chris, I would tell him how I have managed more than one home improvement project this year including the renovation of a basement and the resolution of a nightmare plumbing problem. I would make sure he knows that even though Granny moved in to help us out, no one will ever replace his position in our family. And I would let him know that although we added to our family with Granny, we also lost the furry member of the group (Luna is still alive but has been relocated...more on this another time).


If I could have one more conversation with Chris, I would explain why I felt it was time for me to pack away his clothes for now so that I could utilize our closet more efficiently. I would tell him how I decided one day that my wedding ring didn't feel quite right on my finger any more but that I miss it every time I look down at my hand. I would relate the bittersweet hours I spent sorting through his books, music, and movies deliberating the fate of each one along the way -- keep for myself or the kids, give to his friends or family, or sell/donate. 


If I could have one more conversation with Chris, I would make sure he knew that we celebrated his 50th birthday this year in the best way we knew how and that celebrating my 40th birthday didn't feel like much of a celebration at all. I would tell him about the many inspiring women and men I have met in the widowed community who have helped keep me going during the tough times.


If I could have one more conversation with Chris, I would explain how for the first 365 days of this journey, I kept many things in my life just as they had been with him. I did things because I thought he would want me to do them.  And then I would tell him that during the second 365 days, I realized that what he would really want me to do would be whatever is best for our family. Even if it meant changes to our original plans or leaving the choir because of time constraints and my desire to share the experience of the Mass with our children.


And speaking of our children, if I could have one more conversation with Chris, I would tell him again and again and again that he gave me the best gift possible in life. I would share with him all the funny things that our little man, Ian, says and the all the ways our sweet, now two year old, Claire brightens my day.


And when I was done talking, I would wait for the sure sign that Chris approves of the ways the second 365 days have unfolded -- a simple nod of the head. And I would start planning for how the third 365 days will take shape. 


But for now, since I can't have that conversation with Chris, I will just say, "This is us without, you, Chris. We love and miss you."