For three months you’ve been gone, and just the three of us are left. We seem to be getting along just fine, seem being the operative word.

Yesterday, somewhere between driving from work and home, I had a thought. And it’s not a new thought, but it was the first time that it felt that my thought was something real and not just some awake version of a of a nightmare. Driving on the roads I have driven on countless times, I relived the day Andre died. All I wanted to do is call one of my people and ask, “Did you know Andre died?!”, because it feels unbelievable. How is this even real?

Once again the thought of him being gone took my breath away, my heart was pounded out of my chest, the tears were uncontrollably pouring from my eyes, and I couldn’t get to the safety of my home fast enough. And once I was there I was able to lock myself inside, lay in our bed, hold pictures of my dead husband, cradle the urn where his remains are and cry.

And I relived it all over again.

And again.

And it happens everyday. And it gets harder everyday. Each day I wait, thinking that I’ve been living in some awful twisted and torturous world where people are tested by having to live through their worst nightmare in some fucked up version of fear factor. And everyday that I wake up alone, I think to myself, “today is the day it’s going to be over, I have to have won the game by now” because I am honestly not sure how much more I can take.

Every night I lay in my bed with the pillow vertically beside me and I pray for sleep, because when I sleep sometimes I dream, and when I dream, he comes to me. And these are only moments of comfort and peace I am afforded, so I pray for sleep.

And each morning I wake up with an inexplicable heaviness all over as though I have been picking up and carrying the weight of the world for the last three months, and I’m exhausted.

I got a good look in the mirror yesterday. A deep long glance at myself. If you had asked me six months ago about my best feature, it would have been my eyes. They were bright, full of hope and happiness. They knew what looks to give when I wanted him to fall in line or fall for a line of BS. They knew how to flirt with a batting of my eyelashes, and they even looked good filled with tears. They changed colors for the better when I wore different colors, and even when I was sick.

That’s not how they look now. All of the sparkle and hope have dimmed and now there is just blue surrounded by all the sadness and bags that three months of broken sleep can give you. You, Andre were the life and sparkle in my eyes. You were the life behind them, and each day I recognize my eyes less and less, but have come to begin to accept the lifeless blue pools looking back at me in the mirror. I miss the lightness you made me feel and the happiness you brought to my life.

So, as I continue my search for a way to bring back the brightness in my eyes, and lightness in my heart, the best I can hope for is a good nights sleep.

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