I’ve said similar things before, but as with everything in our lives that we mark down in the “tragedies, misfortunes, and heartbreaks” column of our experience, repeating the details helps us cope with the facts: Jack died 1,000 days ago today.
One thousand days is a long time to hold on to heartache and nurse resentments against the universe for taking away a good person. There are days pain is almost nonexistent and I’m able to release the worst of the grudges I have. Other days the pain takes on a wistfulness, cradling my heart and making it miss what has been lost. Most days I experience something akin to being haunted by a friendly ghost: thoughts of Jack linger in everything I say and do, and he is still the one I wish I could share everything with.
There is so much I want to say, but I fear it will be nothing more than what I’ve said in the other 86 posts I’ve tagged here with his name:
I loved him. He died. He’s never coming back.
I was lucky I knew that sort of love during my lifetime. Many people, I imagine, never get to experience that even once. I fear I never will again, but at least I know what it feels like, and I’ll be able to recognize it should lightning strike twice.
So what does the 1,000th day look like?
From the outside, I have no idea. From the inside, about the same as it always has: grief coming in waves, sometimes with intensity and filled with fear but sometimes (increasingly, over the days) it feels as though I’ve got a magic surfboard at my disposal.
I still don’t know how this story ends, or if it ever will. All I know is that today isn’t the easiest day since Jack died but it’s also not the hardest. And that just has to be enough, because there’s no other option, really.