The number one has a whole new meaning to me these days.
As in singular.
But also surrounding the word “one” is me wishing begging the universe for one more. One more minute…fuck that, this greedy bitch needs a least one hour.
One more hug.
One more smile.
One more conversation.
One more sexy time.
One more laugh.
One more sleepy-time snuggle.
One more day.
One more kiss.
If knew that when I left him that night that it was the last time I would see him alive, I would have kissed him differently; longer, deeper, with all the love and passion that 18 years together brings. But then again, if I knew, I wouldn’t have left. My last memory of kissing my soulmate should not be me leaning over his casket kissing his cold, made up lips. Nope. It should be long and wonderful, and all the stuff that “Last kisses” should be made of, and goddamn it, I deserve a do-over. I deserve one more kiss.
One more lifetime.
He promised me a lifetime and he never broke his promised to me or my girls (not willingly anyway) so I am completely aware that this was not his choice. We talked about retirement and old age and dying notebook style hand-in-hand, (Okay that was me, he was never really into Nicholas Sparks).
We deserve one more chance. One more chance to fight less and love more. To appreciate each other all the time. To never take for granted the time we have together. To stop stressing about money. To show our girls the meaning of true love and give them something to aspire to. One more chance to believe that through our almost 20-year relationship and watching our friends wade through failed marriages and sadness that the universe had a reason after all the hardships we face that we are were still together.
Just one more moment. To smell him near me. To feel his arms around me. To be able to run my fingers through his well-groomed beard. To look into his beautiful deep dark brown-hazel eyes. To hear him say he loves me one more time.
One more second to feel anything but numb.