When I’ve gone to write posts for this blog, the words just fell out of me. But not this time. This time it doesn’t feel like I have any words to give. Sometimes it feels like this is all I am now, and all I have to say, and all I have to give the world, is his death. And when I’m done talking about it, there’s nothing else to say. I both want everyone to know about it without speaking it, and for everyone to never know it ever happened. It’s just so exhausting, being the only thing that exists in my mind now.

I started swim lessons with my 18 month old. I don’t know anyone there and it’s somehow comforting knowing that none of them know my life story. There I am just Everest’s mama and he is just Cassie’s son, and we come together to splash in the water and forget the world. And it would be that simple if everything there didn’t remind me of him too, how this was supposed to be what he did with Everest. And how this would be so much easier for him. How he could place Everest on the floating mat and on the wall so much easier, because I’m too short. Then I find myself getting mad that the instructor doesn’t know my story, doesn’t everyone know? Maybe she wouldn’t be asking me to do these things if she knew.

It’s exhausting. It’s exhausting trying to figure out all the time what reality I want and what story I want to tell. Because there’s no time that will be easier than this moment. It won’t necessarily be harder, and this moment isn’t easy. But there will never be a reality again where he exists on this plane with us. So for this post, this is all I have, and it feels like too little, yet it feels like so much. Which really sums up widowhood, too little and so much.