More often

More often |

Once in a while it will hit me like a blow to my stomach. Not often; just occasionally, when perhaps i haven’t thought about it for a few weeks. I always know how it is i came to be living here, how i came to be teaching what I am, how i found myself taking pictures again. i know how far along the path i’ve travelled, how healed i am, how much ‘better’ my life is now. I know all of this, and i am grateful to be here. But once in a while, like this evening, i will remember. I will sit down on my sofa, with all the wind taken out of my sails. i will sit there and find i have no words, as i say over and over to myself: he died. Sometimes i think i get upset simply because i remember the pain that came after; i remember that pain more keenly than i can remember his touch. After nearly five years i can now admit the screw-ups of our relationship, and how we may not have been together today, had he still been here. I can see the failings and flaws, the disappointments and regrets. The rose-tinted specs are off and the reality check is in place. And i know that i have let him go. I know i have. But once in a while i will stop what i’m doing with the enormity of remembering, and i will wish I had said i love you more often than i did.