There's been a lot of change, and right now I can't even share all of it here.
Amy has finally moved to Champaign. The new house is great, and I'm having a harder time adjusting than she is.
Walker's dad, George, died. Out of nowhere, on our 9th anniversary, the day before Walker's 31st birthday -- April 14 -- he had a heart attack and left us all. We'd seen him just three days earlier at Walker's cousins funeral. We ate breakfast together at the hotel. And suddenly, he's gone, and we can't believe it, and we're scared and sad to be without him.
I have so much more to say about this, but nothing to say.
When my mom died, Walker said it was the worst thing that would probably happen for a long, long time, and I wish he had been right.
On the way home today, I passed Fannie Mae candy, and thought of getting a treat for Amy for her 26th birthday tomorrow, because Pixies are how we commemorate Mom and Gram. And that's all it really took to send me into a round of fantasy.
I NEVER talk to my mom. She's just not there, and it's so painfully clear to me that she can't see me and she's nowhere to be found. And then suddenly I was in the car talking to my mom.
You would love it here. I would be coming home to you right now.
Our house would have you in it. You would be on my case when I got home and laid down on the couch. We'd park our twin cars side by side in the driveway. Daisy (now our dog) would still be yours. When Zoe (who became Annie's) died, you'd have wanted another dog, and even though it was our house and the naughty dogs drive us nuts, you'd get another dog. And little tiny Harry (Annie's new dog) would be yours.
And then like that, the moment was gone.