Grief is a life-long journey, they say. The blackest and darkest parts of it will go away, of course, with time and the proper process. You have to face your grief, they say.

Haven't I faced mine? I've faced it every day. For six years, I have thought of you. I have wondered who you would have been. I have wondered why, and I have wished with all my soul that I could just have one more moment with you. I said once how hard it was to never say goodbye, and to have you never say hello. But I did say goodbye, I think? I don't know. I don't want to say goodbye to you. Not to you. And you, you said hello. I'm sure of it. I could feel your breath, I'm sure of it. Maybe it was my own rugged panting that I felt, or maybe I'm just crazy. But I like to think that you did take at least one breath.

They say that losing someone like you, is losing a piece of yourself. But it's more than that. It's not just losing a piece of yourself. It's losing your entire self, and it takes too long to get it back.

I named him after you. I think you would have liked that. Most people seem to hate the name, because it's unusual. I just tell them it's a family name, which is true. But it was more than just a name for my ancestors, it was your name first. I'm not trying to replace you. It's my way of never forgetting you. 

I'm so afraid of forgetting people. Maybe that's because I'm afraid of being forgotten. I never got a picture of you. I have nothing to remember you by, except a memory and some gifts stashed away in a closet. I have a pair of gloves my mother crocheted for you. They're so tiny, it's funny to look at them in my hands. I like to keep pictures of people, because you never know when you might lose someone. And the worst thing to do to anyone, is to forget them.

It's strange, to think that I was only a teenager when I lost you. No person should ever go through something like that, young or old--but I think that maybe I could have handled it better at my age now. Or maybe I couldn't have. Maybe the tiny sliver of child-like innocence I still had was what kept me from joining you.

My life has just moved too fast. At least when I do die young, I know that I would have experienced equal to or more than most old folks. But maybe I've experienced too much.

They don't have a name for it, you know? There's a widow, a widower, an orphan. But there's nothing for me. There are no words that can label it or describe it.

I have this secret "board" that I pin a bunch of quotes and articles to about us. I like to read them every now and then. Not to feel sad, but to feel a little less alone. I hate being grateful I'm not alone, because this is something that I don't want anyone else to suffer through.

I hate this month. Time flies. It's the summertime and then my semester starts and then it's Thanksgiving and then Christmas and then New Years and then the spring semester starts and I'm crammed down with exams and studies and late homework--and then boom. I glance at the calendar and I see that it's April. April. I have many months I'd like to knock off the calendar: August, November, December, October...but April has it's own special place of dread.

The days seem to get shorter in April, up until your day. And then time just stops. It was the longest day of my life, and still is. Usually I'd find some way to kill my mind until the next morning: but this time I'm going to try and be strong. Am I really a coward for running from this? Yes, I think I am. Maybe not, maybe I get some slack for this. But maybe if I just face it, entirely sober, for once--it'll hurt less next time.

In a way, I wonder if I really want it not to hurt anymore. Because what if when it doesn't hurt, that means I don't love you anymore? I don't want you, or anyone else, to think that I stopped loving you. I didn't have to spend that much time with you to fall instantly in love. I swear you were alive for at least five minutes. I swear I heard you cry. I swear you moved and jerked in my arms. I swear that you just fell asleep. I know you did, but most of my memory from that time is blacked out.

Psychologists say that blacked out memory means your mind won't let you review things. Because you're not ready to deal with it. Will I ever be able to deal with it? I'm half-curious, but mostly I'm just afraid of what I'll remember. There are a lot of things I wish I could forget right now, I don't want to add to the list.

Maybe if I just focus on the good part of the day. There is good on your day, because it's her day, too. Everyone here likes to tell me that I should see her and be involved in her life: but they don't understand. They weren't there when I did have her. They didn't see what kind of dad I was. They didn't even know what kind of person I was back then, in general. I've changed: massively. Maybe you had the easy road, because you never had to spend your first few years living in the hell I created with Her.

I think I might send her a card. I won't call her. I had every reason to give her up, and only a few selfish reasons to keep her. They don't understand, and I don't think they ever will. Just like no one understand this. They try, and I appreciate that they try. But it's just not something they will understand: and I hope that there never comes a day when they do understand.

I miss you. Because I didn't just lose you at that moment, I lost you at 2. At 10. At 16. I lost your first words, loose teeth, your laugh. I lost the moment you open your eyes. I lost the first dances, I lost learning your taste in music and sharing mine. I lost your baseball and football games, I lost watching kid's TV with you. I lost dressing you up all nicely for service, I lost Christmas mornings and birthday dinners. I lost your first day of school, and your last. I lost your first date and your wedding day. I lost the fights and the anger and you telling me that you hate me. I lost the makeups and the hugs and you telling me that you love me and me telling you that I'm proud. I lost it all, didn't I?

I guess I would have lost you anyway, since she's off wherever she is. But losing the hope of it all...that was awful. The dreams instantly shattered. The disbelief that this was really happening to me. And who knows? Maybe if we didn't lose you, things would have turned out differently. Maybe I'd still have both of my girls. But then again, I wouldn't have what I have now. So I can't complain, yet sometimes I wonder. Is it healthy to wonder? I don't know.

I don't know what I'm saying anymore.

I guess all I have to say is that I'm afraid to go this alone. Because it doesn't matter who is physically there, or there in spirit and purpose. I'm going to be alone, and I've been alone before but never have I really done it without something to drown myself in. It's scary, to actually face it--to face you--this time.

It's been about six years, hasn't it? Isn't it time that I finally come to terms with it?

But I don't think I'll be letting go of you, this isn't what it means.

It just means I need to get myself together, and move on a little. I read some stupid quote the other day, which said "you don't have to see the whole staircase to take the first step". This is all I'm doing, taking another step. I've come very far already. I don't think I've ever spoken this openly about any of it before. I don't think I've really spoken to you like I should. I haven't visited your tiny headstone, but maybe I will. Maybe you'll get to meet him. And her. Would you have liked them? I wonder.

I love you.