7 weeks.

I really wish I’d stop counting.

Yet, here I am, doing it again.

I have a one-way written dialogue going with you and it seems to have spilled over onto my blog. My shrink told me that some people count because they have a specific date in mind, a goal, to which their grief will end and everything will return to normal.

Only, it never does, does it?

We change, we vacillate between being ‘okay’ and totally NOT being okay.

You never met my younger sister. She thinks I should be better by now. She doesn’t get it. She can’t understand how the mere mention of your name constricts my throat and sends a 10′ wall of saline to come flooding out of my eyes like some swollen spring river. She doesn’t understand that I can’t talk about you, unless ‘I’ bring it up and I’m ready to discuss things without falling to pieces.

She means well. She only wants to help take the sorrow away. This is like wanting to cure cancer with a thought. Good luck with that, baby sis.

I’m sleeping like shit but I think I dream of you. Only…I can’t be sure…they’re foggy and filled with undertones of shifting colour and surreal conversations.

It’s been damn hot, here. You’d have needed a fan in your little apartment. Although…it was evident by your camping slippers you shuffled around in, early mornings, and the bathrobe + jammies you’d slip on after sleeping in the nude…that you enjoyed being warm. 🙂

I found that cute, those massive slippers with your pajama pants pooling around the high topped fabric and draw string (because we wouldn’t want any heat to escape…) like a little boy wearing his big brother’s clothes.

“I like to have my feet warm,” you’d state matter-of-fact.

Then, you’d smile your smile, a combination of subtle shyness and a challenging: ‘Go ahead; I dare you to make fun of them’ – look. I’m not sure just how you accomplished such a thing.

You were always sporting opposites like it was normal to do so. Like, being this athletic cycling-dude whilst completely being addicted to Coca-Cola and candy. You actually ‘shopped’ for candy; as in…you had specific places where they sold just the right kind. I thought this both a little odd…and extremely funny. I think you were always a little boy, at heart.

I wonder when I’ll stop ticking off Mondays as: ‘that day when that really bad and horrible thing happened’ ?

Maybe, next week?

I doubt it. I suspect this will carry on for quite some time.

Thinking (far too much) of you, cute boy…. xo