One Month Without You

And it seems like forever.

It seems like it has already been forever, and there is still forever before me.

How can I stand it?

You'd be so disappointed in me if I don't.
I don't know what to do or where to turn.
You were my something to do.
You were my someone to turn to.

5 weeks since you went to the hospital, and I was so pleased that you were doing so while you could be treated -- and treated locally, too.
5 weeks from the Day of Doom that has haunted me, but been relatively inoffensive, for 30 years.
5 weeks.

4 weeks and 1 day since you left us. It won't, technically, be a month until Saturday. But it's been 4 weeks and 1 day.

That long since I held your hand, cupped your strong but hairy chin, felt your strong heart beating.
That long since your strong heart beat.

Oh, Rex; oh Rex; oh Rex.

I must remember you as you were in the dream. Upright, smiling, laughing as you were on your way to Tammy's, walking. You wanted to surprise her with how well you were doing. You asked me wouldn't she be surprised.

She says she has dreamed of you, frequently.

But she's never told me whether or not she was surprised.
I'll bet she was.

I'll bet you were.

I keep the picture we used on the refrigerator.
It reminds me of the time when you were reasonably healthy and you could do things and would laugh and joke with all of us.
It reminds me of the man who, in many ways, passed long ago.

I wanted us to grow old together, but I remind myself that I didn't want to see you suffer more.
I wanted you to heal, to be cured, to be young again, and that will happen for none of us.

So I comfort myself with your return to not-sick, not-weak, not-suffering.
Someday, I hope to comfort myself with a return to you.