One hundred and twenty one in 2023

That’s how many days you’ve been gone.

I can’t even fathom. It gets better, they say. I hate hearing that. But then, yesterday, I was thinking about it …

I suppose it has gotten better in ways?

I don’t sleep with your urn anymore. It stays in it’s case.

I haven’t washed any of your clothes that weren’t clean before you died, which isn’t much since I’d just done laundry that weekend. They don’t smell like you anymore, but I can’t bring myself to wash you away yet.

Your shoes are still on the rack by the door, your toothbrush still in the holder in the bathroom.

I break down in tears randomly throughout the day, for reasons I can’t even put my finger on.

Sometimes I catch a whiff of your cologne, eventho I haven’t opened the bottle to sniff it in weeks. I tried to, a month or so ago, I inhaled your scent and it crushed me .. for days. I’m not ready for that again.

But … I don’t sleep with your urn anymore so … that must be what they mean when they say it gets better?

I miss you more every day. Every single day it’s harder. I’m so bored with existing. I just don’t want to anymore.