Wish you were here.

I miss you.  Every single day.  Nine months now,  Mama.

It is getting better, but really, it's my life that is getting better, and that makes the hurt easier to stomach most days.

Other days, though, how much better life has gotten in the last few months makes me sick.  All of these things are coming together, but the biggest loose end will never be tied up.  There is this big unmendable rip in the fabric, and some days all I can see is the rip.  

Some days, I feel sickened that I can even feel good about things without you here.

Some days, I'm a festering pool of resentment and disappointment, and overwhelmed by doing right by Amy, and so sad that I wasn't there for you you more when you were trying to do right by Amy, and so angry that you were so alone in the world, and full of self pity and obsessed with the idea that it is my fate to be so alone in the world, too.

Most days, when I wake up in the morning, I call Daisy and she leeps up on the bed next next to me and we cuddle till the coffee is ready, and I'm so thankful for her.  Some days, though, I look at her and all I can see is why I have her.  Because you are gone.  She is the dog of broken dreams.

I wish you were here.

Annie was sick last week, and I'm sick this week.  You'd have driven in the city with Zoe to see Annie.  You'd have pulled up in front of her building with your blinkers on and honked and called until Annie emerged, sick and pj'd, to carry in your bag and park your car, and when she returned from parking the car you'd have made it half way in to her apartment and could be cursing with a smile as you got up the steps.

Then, I'd have convinced you to visit sick me this week, since you visited sick Annie last week.  You'd be claiming you were going to drive home tonight, but then you'd stay.  I'd be totally overwhelmed by Daisy in our little house and all the hair she drops.  Later, we'd lay on the bed and watch our crime shows, and you'd bemoan the tiny screen, but also tell me again how you were going to start watching things on your laptop.   You'd keep touching my relaxed ponytail, and tell me again how you "can't believe that's your hair".  I can hear you saying "Walker, hon, can you do me a favor?"

God, I miss you.