A Year Later

A year ago today, my closest friend, Tim, passed away. It was a clear morning, shortly after 5:20am, and the sun was rising. During the night, he struggled mightily, gutting it out in his usual way. All the while his family and friends stayed by his side, keeping a vigil, keeping him as comfortable as possible, comforting each other, saying goodbye. It was the hardest night I'm sure anyone there had ever gone through. Tim made it to the morning. In his last moments, he sat up, seemingly clear of pain. It was if he yearned to bask in the sunlight one last time. And then, in the arms of his loved ones, he was gone.

It's only been a year. The pain of loss is still with me. I somehow feel it every day since. The air feels heavier. Everyone around me seems more somber. The days seem dimmer. One of the brightest lights in my life was snuffed out. I no longer feel like a whole person.

This morning, at 5:15am, I got out of bed. I opened the blinds. My eyes stung, adjusting to the light of the sun, just coming up. I woke Lisa, and she sat up almost immediately, remembering what day and time it was. For about fifteen minutes, we just sat on the edge of the bed, staring out the window. We watched the sun rise. I looked at the trees, still dark in the foreground. When 5:25am passed, I looked skyward, heavenward, tears in my eyes. Then I looked at Lisa. She was crying, too.

A year.

I don't usually pray. I really don't know what to make of that particular act anymore. So I did the next best thing. I just closed my eyes and said to myself, I love you, Timmy. I miss you so very much.

A few hours later, at his grave, we laid some sunflowers. One his favorites. You can see some etched on his marker. From the freshness of some of the flowers that were there prior to our arrival, we knew that he had some visitors. Beautiful roses, and one pinkish, spikey flower I don't know the name for. He was the most beloved person I'd ever known. And deservedly so. But his epitaph is also true: "...loved by many...but (he) loved many more..."

He was a loving guy. And he did it in small ways. Just by the way he looked at you as you spoke. He did it with quiet, subtle gestures. That's what I think I'll miss the most -- the way he could make it seem like you were the only person in the world when he spoke to you.

I know things will perk up. It's got to. It's the way these things go, I'm told. You know, "Time heals all things". Blah blah blah. I know. It still hurts, though. When I listen to certain songs or drive by certain places, I get a little pang someplace deep. But I'm comforted by the fact that I have people around me who feel the same, who share the love we'd been given by Tim. I'm glad there are people who I can count on for support and who remind me of the good times. Who remind me of who Tim was. Not to bring in the "awww" factor, when I look at Audrey smile, I can see her old man's squint somewhere in there. She's got the same look that he had when he laughed, too. Eyes wide, mouth quietly agape, like she's going to swallow you whole.

So yeah, it hurts. But I know things will get better. But don't expect me to commiserate with you on this day. I'm not ready yet.

Maybe next year.