I'm heartbroken that you can't see it but I'm so much more devastated that you aren't here to visit with your family. I know you would have been so pumped to have them over.
This afternoon while I was putting things away, I organized all the shoes in the coat closet. I came across the shoes I wore on November 9th. I remembered because they were gold ballet flats I bought at Target or something, and I was freaking out on the phone trying to find something, anything, to put on my feet and get out the door and that's all I could find. Then I remembered the toes were worn out and my feet were freezing - at some point that night, the girls loaded me in the van and were taking turns rubbing my purple feet and covering me with blankets.
I don't know if I've worn those shoes since. Either way, it felt so strange to see them today, so foreign. Like the shoes represented a different life. And even though I think about you constantly every single day, I felt so disconnected from the shoes and that day, still unable to process it as a reality of my life. The horror of it all flooded back to me, though. The panic that set in while I was frantically looking for shoes felt fresh. So entangled and so separated. I've come to realize so many things about death is ironic.
I knew I needed to get rid of those sorry excuses for shoes, but they were hard to let go of. Everything that makes me think of you is hard to let go of.
I miss you terribly, baby. I wish you could hold me tonight.
I love you with all that I am.