Some days are heavier than others.
My first thought when I woke up today was, “I should call Sarah. I haven’t talked to her in weeks”. I was startled at the harsh reality that you died 10 weeks ago today. I laid in bed for the first two hours crying with stunned guilt for forgetting momentarily, only while I was asleep, that you’re gone. That you’re never coming back.
There’s so much left for us to discuss. So many memories we’ve yet to make. So many stories left to tell. Remembering all the times I wanted desperately to give you advice, but knew you just needed the opportunity to figure things out on your own. To be your own woman. When you needed advice, you asked for it, so I just tried to stay quiet. I was quietly listening and waiting.
I had a sixth sense with you. I knew when you were hurting. I knew when you were in trouble. I knew when someone had broken your heart. I knew when you needed me. I knew these things even when we were 10,000 miles apart.
You knew honesty and trust were the most important things to me. I reminded you of it all the time. I knew when you were full of shit. When you were little (and even when you were 26 years old), I knew when you were about to lie. You had a tell. You’d start a sentence with, “So…”. You lied out of some need to protect me. Or maybe it was out of a desire to avoid disappointing me.
I wish the doctors lied. I wish the Medical Examiner lied. I wish seeing you on Life Support was a lie. I wish touching your cold face at the funeral home was a lie. I wish the ashes I held in my hands were a lie.
I keep hoping you’ll call. I wish I’d saved your voice messages. Sometimes I hear your laugh or the annoying way you’d say “Mommmmm” when you thought I wasn’t paying attention. I was always paying attention.
There’s a void that simply can’t be filled. I’ve tried filling it with travels, with meditation, with music, with friends, with books, movies, and alcohol. Except for a weekend trip, I’ve stayed put the last few weeks, knowing I need to feel all of this.
I’m here. I’m feeling it. In fact, I don’t want to stop feeling it. I’m afraid if I stop feeling the pain of your absence, the memories will leave and you’ll be gone forever. But you, my sweet Sarah, you are unforgettable.
~ Jen Troyer, April 2019