The memories have become less intimate lately. But today I cry the same as I did one year ago. Today I hear your voice as vividly as I did one year ago, before you had let go, and you were holding onto the grip of life through the handles of a wheelchair and the hiss of an oxygen pump.
Today I hold you the same as I did one year ago, and I love you the same as always. I have become more resilient because of you. I have learned to love myself because of you. Every November I'll walk back into 2018 the same as I did then, I'll scour the halls of the hospital looking for you. And eventually, after I've checked every room, searched for you in every smile, I'll find you by the water, sitting and drinking tea. I'll find you walking and breathing deeply. I'll find you with your daughter and I'll find you with your grand babies. And I'll remind them to remember the sound of your voice when they hear the echo of my advice.
Your love is ever going, beyond the bounds of that hallway or the depth of the ground you're scattered upon. Your love exists beyond November and my pain exists only when I fail to remember— that even though I won't find you in the hallway, or your bed room, or pulling weeds from the garden, I'll find you next to me, and Charlie, and your daughter, and bear, and I'll hold on tight to all you've left me.
