Sometimes

Sometimes I just want to ask things. Like the name of the milkshake place where they put butter cookies on the straws. Like how it felt when he did his first solo surgery.

Sometimes I just want to tell him things. Like, “Did you see the news about that plane crash? What happened?” Like, “Tonight we went to the Root Beer Stand and George got ghost pepper cheese on his burger. Did you even know they had ghost pepper cheese?”

Sometimes I just want to remember things. Like strapping on roller blades for the first time and him insisting that we wear all the protective gear. Like watching he and Mom sit on the front porch catching up on their days.

Sometimes I’m not sure if I want to remember things. Like how it felt to hear Danny’s voice on the phone and knowing that we’d come to the end of a long journey. Like getting in the car and my body shaking because we didn’t know if he would still be alive by the time we got there.

Sometimes it’s really, really hard. And I feel like my heart is physically breaking. I feel actual pain that I can’t talk to him. It feels like life should just have frozen when he died.

Sometimes it’s not hard. And I feel normal and go to work and go on walks and things don’t feel different. We laugh and we plan and we don’t feel guilty because we know he’s proud of us.

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