That was more than half a year ago. My life is measured against this single date now. First I could measure in days. Then weeks. Then I started counting in months. Now I can count in half years. How strange to think so much time has passed. I still remember The Phone Call like it was yesterday.
My life is also measured in seasons.
FALL: letting go of Marcus, tears falling bigger and faster than maple leaves.
WINTER: a state of dormancy, lying in a vegetative state on my couch reading books on survival (my favorite: “I’m Grieving as Fast as I Can.”)
And now, miraculously, I have lived to see SPRING! Just look at those daffodils! And sun! No, really. It is kind of miraculous if you consider how just a few months ago I got kicked out of my grief support group because the counselor thought I might kill myself before the night was over. My friends howl with laughter when I tell them this. Why is that funny? (Because they’re so used to my crying they know it doesn't mean I'm a threat to myself? They also know I was offered private sessions instead, which I gratefully accepted.)
I am still standing, still living my life as a tree. My roots are digging ever deeper into the ground. My branches are reaching ever higher toward the light (I say light, but what I mean is toward Marcus.) And if you look closely, you might even see that I am sprouting buds.
In case you were wondering, the shrine remains prominently displayed. And when it comes to measuring time, not more than five minutes go by that I don't think of Marcus. He may be gone, but I'm keeping him very much alive in my memory.