{A continuation of a story I did last year. Check August 2009: Grief never lets you go. }


It's been almost a year. It's summer again. But the air will always feel cold. The heat no longer burns and the whole innocence of summer is no longer there. It's almost a year.

Could he really see me? Protect me from where he was? I don't know. I don't think I want to. But I can imagine it. Just like I can hear him every single morning since then. The way he would squint at my choice of lingerie for the day, the way he would laugh at my ridiculous attempts to smother down my bush of a hair, the way he would whisper, sing me to sleep. The counselors called it 'trauma', 'dealing with grief'. Fuck it, if I were to listen to them. He was there. Everyday.

I've taken down most of the things. The pictures, momentos, things that reminded me of him. I took down everything except for our wedding photo that I left on the kitchen countertop and the faded shot of our baby. The two things I could never bring myself to forget. The backyard is looking less like a jungle and more like a garden should. I had had to stay in the hotel for 3 days while they landscaped the place.

But this house is still made of empty bricks and hollow stones. It's too big. I've taken to looking at properties down by the quay. Nice apartments meant for one. His parents still visit now and then. His sister calls and we talk. But isn't it strange? I'm talking to people I'm no longer connected to in any way.

And there were those little things in between then and now. Christmas, birthdays, Valentines, anniversaries. They merely showed me what I'm missing. I got a dog. I called it Roo. It's a demanding thing, but it keeps me company and listens and watches me as I cry, tucking himself next to me as if he knew my grief.

I got a haircut 7 months after. It was pixie short and everyone says it looks good on me. But all I can see when I look in the mirror is how you'd sneak up on my and breathe in the scent of my hair and how you'd always love to stroke my hair and how'd you'd tell me that I looked beautiful in the mornings with my hair all over the place eventhough I know full well that I don't.

So one year. I survived one year. It's not easy. It still isn't easy. I don't think it ever will be.

Labels: Short stories