As the years since Jared‘s death grow longer, I am worried I will forget.
I am worried I will forget the special things about him.
The blue of his eyes.
The sound of his laughter.
The touch of his hands.
The way he said I love you.
The twinkle in his eyes when he was excited.
The tilt of his shit eating grin.
The way his smirk was so endearing.
The way he made me feel.
I am worried I will forget the me I was with him.
The way I felt so confident.
The fact I knew together we could do anything.
How he made me feel like I was the only person in the world.
The way my heart would beat a little faster.
The butterflies in my stomach.
The tingling in my toes.
All because he kissed me.
I am worried I will forget the man he was.
The way he would do anything for a friend.
The lack of tolerance he had for so many things.
His patience to help those who wanted to learn.
His ability to always smile and laugh no matter what.
His complete and unconditional love for me and our son.
The fact he never let his disease stop him from doing anything.
That his faith could move mountains.
I am worried I will forget the father he was to our son.
How he would help Steven and his friends float across the pond.
How he built Steven’s playset without any help.
The hours the two of them spent throwing a football in our yard.
The pride on his face when he coached Steven’s baseball and football teams.
The joy he and Steven shared riding dirt bikes.
When he would help Steven climb the dirt piles and ride his John Deere down it.
The two of them sitting at the kitchen table doing homework.
The way he would smile and call Steven “baby” when he was an infant.
How he always affectionately called our son “the boy.”
The way he always worried about what was best for Steven.
I am worried I will forget him.
I am worried I will forget our life together.
I am worried I will forget.
And that terrifies me.