14 June 2011

Liefie, I can't sleep

I never thought I was the kind of person who would write to you after you died. But what else can I do when I can't sleep without you? The first few days after you left, it did not seem so hard. Let's be honest, we both knew it was coming. Keeping busy with your funeral helped me forget about the future.

But now, my life has become a big swiss cheese. There are gaping holes wherever I look. When I sat in the camping chair on the patio this evening, I thought of our camping trips. Who will zip our sleeping bags together now? I can not imagine ever going camping again without you. Even if I ever find someone new, it will always be a substitute because we were supposed to grow old together.

How will I ever find someone to fly kites with. Can you imagine me, at 38 meeting someone and explaining how I love being a child again and flying a kite? I can't. You just understood.

I am sorry for all the things you never got to do. And I am sorry for all those times I did not understand what you were trying to tell me.

I bought the chair you sat in for the past 10 months. I just could not bare the thought of someone else sitting in your chair. When the man came to pick it up, I offered him money on the spot as I was in tears at the thought of another piece of you leaving me.

Everything I touch in the house is divided into 2 eras. The one before you went to the hospice and the one after. When I emptied the paper recycling, I looked for papers I put in that bin before you went away. I held those papers, as if they could somehow take me back to the day they were published. When you were still here. In the fridge and freezer, I looked at things I bought recently, before you went away. Somehow it is a way of holding on to you. There are still things in my life that I bought when you were still here. And as long as there are still perishable things from before you died, it means it is still very recent and I can still just pretend you have only just gone away. Or that you might come back. Even when I know I am just pretending, it makes me feel better for a second. But like a drug, it makes me feel worse right after. But that is a price worth paying for the few seconds that I pretend this never happened.

I miss you more each day. I love you more each day. I cry more each day.


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