A Moment; A Reminder

I had a moment the other day.

I was talking to you, as I often do. About my pain, about work, about the girls, or the babies. Or maybe the mowing -- I think of/talk to you a lot over that. I don't remember what the topic was, but it suddenly hit me, like a physical blow, that you weren't really there, that you can't answer, that there is no sharing
.
You are gone, and I am left with this big hole in my soul where you have been for nearly half my life.
I was hurt; I was angry.

And then I remembered.
1) You are no longer struggling for that one more breath
2)  You are not hungry and unable to eat
3) You don't have to choose between eating or breathing.
4) Your bones are no longer painfully grinding themselves into dust.
5) You aren't tethered to a chair, a room, or an oxygen machine

While I wish you were still here, I am glad that you are no longer sick; no longer suffering.

I have to remember that when those moments hit me.
Because those are all the things I've wanted for you, all the years that I couldn't make it better.

I had to give you up to give you what I wanted for you.