I woke up today and you were still gone. I got the kids breakfast and put them on the bus. An inconvenience and a luxury. A luxury to kiss them goodbye. To have dinner in the crockpot ready when everyone gets home. A luxury you will never have again.
I woke up today and you were still gone. I read somewhere that a sign of hope is setting your alarm to wake up in the morning. And couldn't help imagining you setting your alarm Sunday night. Preparing the house for another week ahead of school and work and kid activities. Was it still going off when they found you?
I woke up today and you were still gone. I want to text you and ask you how I'm suppose to handle this because you are the person I would have normally texted. And I know you would tell me to keep swimming. To "not trouble trouble". So I sit in my office, emails coming in, meetings to attend. I have conversations at the bus stop and training dogs and the bike trails the town put in.
I woke up today and you were still gone. And if I am lucky enough to wake up tomorrow you will still be gone. And I will miss you in all the small moments. And years from now I know if I am still lucky enough to keep waking up I will reach for phone to text you. Because we were supposed to be old women together. Because you were robbed of the luxury to tuck your kids in and watch them grow. Because I was robbed of one of my best friends.
I woke up today and you were still gone.
