Five months. Chronologically. Five months ago, today, you died.

I have deliberately not written to you since that moment. I couldn’t. I could write about you. A lot. Take a look at my blog. My journals. My poetry. Texts. Emails. You are everywhere. I just couldn’t…can’t…stop breathing your name into my writing.

Christmas break came. It happened. And it went. And somewhere in those two weeks, I finally found my ability to breathe again. It’s not that I miss you any less. But just that underwater suffocation eased. I could see the 7th and not feel that pang. That need to run away and avoid the reality that you are gone.

Mom wears your shoes. They’re two sizes too big for her (did you know that the slippers I bought for her are from the children’s department?). She can’t wear them when she walks down the stairs, but I imagine that even now they are on her feet. And you know her and that damn white carpet in Florida. No one is allowed to wear shoes inside that condo. But your shoe’s treadmarks are all over that carpet. I guarantee it.

I tried to write my second Louiston novel last November. I got 20,000 words in and had to stop. I couldn’t occupy such a happy, cozy place. You’re there. You own the Pete’s Wilderness Guide and Outfitters shop and, thanks to you and the efforts of Ida Mae and Tony Boswell, you helped save Louiston when the coal mines were shut down.

Pete. I could never fit into your shoes. Your shadow eclipsed mine. God, your measuring stick surpassed everything I could ever do. I wish we could have talked about that when you were well. When your mind was intact. I didn’t have the confidence, though. I didn’t have the my own sense of inner peace which has been eluding me for so long.

It’s hard for me to think about you in Heaven. No. I don’t think of you in any other place but Heaven. But it’s still so hard. Immediately, the archetypal angel comes to mind and I really don’t see you with wings, a golden halo, or a white pleated bed sheet. I can almost see you in your climbing gear, in those smooth soled shoes and the hip belt with your chalk sack. I haven’t asked Sharon yet. But I really want one of your caribiners.

But I don’t need anything of yours to remember you by. Today, I wore the green ceramic earrings you bought for me in Wyoming. I didn’t wear them because I associate them with you. I wore them because they’re pretty. And I could find the pair faster than anything else and I’m tired of the snowflake earrings. I am saturated with your memories. Your cocky smile. Your egg head that was accentuated by the single edge buzz cut you gave yourself.

I’ve started walking again with the intent of getting ready for hiking season. I’ve kept the world at arm’s length as I grieved. And I will never stop missing you. But, today, I finally felt happy. Like I used to on the first day of school before your diagnosis. And I keep thinking of you without the pang. Without that acid touch.

My grief sister served her purpose. She lived for so long in my delphinium bush, tucked among the white frondy blossoms. And, now, I see her dim shape on the horizon. She is the wisp of cloud trying to tickle the edge of the world. She is the first and last strips of light when the sun rises and sets. She is the quiet sigh when the stars open their eyes and greet the Earth. She will visit again. And I will know her touch when she hands me the trowel so I can plant more of Mom’s favorite tulip bulbs. Or when I thread the greenback onto the hook before I fish for sugar trout like I did with Dad.

But those moments are in the future. And Mom and Dad are as well as can be expected. I’m keeping an eye on them. Promise.

I’ll see you at the creek. Spring is only two months away, and that is the perfect time to start our annual rounds of adventure and exploration.

Until then.

Love you. Mean it.