Two Years

It's hard to believe it's been two years to the day since Tim died. In that time, my friends and family have moved to and fro, became parents for the first time, got married, changed careers. We had a big election. And hist daughter Audrey just turned three (!!) -- she's such a great, happy, beautiful kid, getting really tall, too.

I was saddened by the fact that Tim wasn't here to be a part of it all. But in a way, he was. I know, like most of you who end up reading this, carry him in your heart and think of him at least once a day. I know I do. Little things bring up memories of him. Watching people fish from their boats on Lake Washington reminds me of fishing with Tim, both of us sitting in an eight foot bucket, catching no fish and getting sunburned. Going through my stack of old college textbooks (I just moved recently) and seeing my Psych 101 book flashes me back to taking that course with Tim and the subsequent finals cram; the associations we made with certain terms were pretty ridiculous. Songs on the radio with "lalala" in the lyrics morphs into the sound he used to do for Audrey to make her laugh. Looking at a fish tank reminds me of Tim's fave line from "A Fish Called Wanda": Aaaaaassssshoooooooole!!!! I dug up some plants he gave me (a month or so before he died), and moved them to my new place. Including the pathetic snowball bush lacking in branches. They're priceless to me, and I water them religiously.

Last year, the first anniversary of his death, was tough. For a long time, it was hard for me to picture him as a healthy young guy. The image of him as a gravely ill person burned in me for a long time. I guess as I watched his health gradually fail, I didn't really notice how bad it was. After he died, I was looking at some pictures of him in the last months of his life, and it had shocked me. Anyway, I don't care to relive that right now, but it stayed with me for a long time.

I think it's starting to get better, now. I wanted to wake up this morning at 5am and walk around Green Lake with Lisa, hoping to catch the sun rise, just as it had done as Tim passed two years ago. But exhaustion and weather foiled that. I rolled over and woke Lisa at 6:30. It was raining. We just laid there for a bit, not speaking. My eyes were closed, but I had a grin on my face. She asked what I was thinking. I told her I could picture Tim, sometimes clearly, sometimes faded. But I could see him the way I used to: healthy, smiling, happy. I had a collage of old photos in my head, all of Tim. In his truck. Sitting on a rock. Being held aloft by buddies at his wedding. My favorite wasn't from any actual photo. It was kind of movie-like. It was dark, with a bright light in the center, Tim standing in the middle of the glow. He was there, standing on a soccer field, wearing some team's jersey. The ball under his left foot. I could hear a crowd cheering. And right before I fell asleep again, the image panned to his face, with the spotlight shining on it. He was smiling.

I could only hope that's what Heaven is like.