Sundays hurt the most I think.
Weekends were almost always looked forward to and three day weekends looked to as treasure. Well here I sit on a Sunday morning lonely, heartbroken and wishing it was Monday again. At least on Monday I can busy myself with my regular stuff…not sit in family time with my broken family. Every Sunday there is just a huge gap for me. From rolling over in the night and seeing your face to making two cups of coffee and Sunday breakfast, it all seems empty. It took months before I realized that I hadn’t cooked a Sunday breakfast. Now, all I can muster is sausage and eggs…no dinosaur pancakes, no omelets…nothing special. It took over a year before I broke out the pancake batter again. I didn’t even realize I hadn’t done it until I did again.
Something that was so routine, I pushed it to the back of my existence, so far back, I didn’t even realize I wasn’t doing it. How sad it is…how sad for my son, years of this ritual ripped away, just like you were ripped away. You were my Sunday man though. You were the one that would make it special. You would get up early and go get special coffee or new plants for the garden or poke me to come watch the sun rise on a parking lot rooftop. Such beautiful Sundays….such a beautiful life, not perfect, but beautiful. Man I miss that. Man I miss you. Man, I miss you on Sundays. There is a beauty and sparkle that is missing and that sparkle is you.
Lately, I’ve been trying to recover from losing you. I’ve been cleaning and focusing on our boys and how to help them. What to do for school when the place you’ve been says that we’re to high maintenance? What to do for home, when it seems like I’m losing my big boy to his grief? Trying to refocus and recover…from a loss so great..