Last night I was thinking about the last time we spent this much time apart. It was over 12 years ago. We'd been married a little over two years and you had to take your Cross Cultural class at college. I dropped you off at the airport on January 1, 1999, just as a huge snow storm was moving in. If your flight had been 30 minutes later, you wouldn't have been able to leave for at least a couple of days. You were gone for almost four weeks. We didn't have cell phones, so you took a calling card with you and we talked on the phone every night. Not for long. Just enough to catch up on the day and say "I love you." At the time, I didn't know how I was going to make it through until you got home. I missed you each and every day. But somewhere, in the back of my mind, I knew you'd be home and that made each day apart something I could handle.
You're not coming home from this cross cultural trip. I know that, but there's still a part of me that can't accept it. I wait for you at the door sometimes, just like Stevie does, hoping you'll walk in at any minute, but you won't...not this time.
While I was at the hospital, holding vigil at Miranda's bedside, the sister of one of our neighbors tied a beautiful pink ribbon on the tree out in front of our house. It's been a daily reminder for me that even though you're not here, you're still with me, that it's our home I live in. I untied it from the tree today, both to keep it from being ruined by the elements and to ward off uncomfortable questions. On Saturday night, we ordered some subs to nosh on while we watched our movie. The lady who delivered them was very cheerful and asked if we'd had a baby. I didn't know how to answer. I felt dumb, like there was no answer...at least not one that I could give her that would make sense. I mumbled back "no, not so much" even though it wasn't the truth, or at least the whole truth. The pink ribbon is drying out today. I'll keep it indoors...to remind me of you both.
Remember how I told you that the whole pregnancy thing was flying by for me? It always seemed like there just wasn't enough time to get ready. The days don't move so fast now. Part of me wishes they would and part of me is thankful they don't. Grief hurts, I don't know anyone that would want to feel this way; but, I don't want to get over you either. Writing to you helps, mostly to sort out my own confusion, but it doesn't help fill the emptiness.
I love you. I miss you. Give Miranda a kiss from daddy.