Rick’s last visit to the peninsula was a year ago this weekend, although of course we didn’t know it at the time.
He’s been gone three months today, and in those three months, I’ve learned a lot about the grieving process, far more than I ever wanted to know.
Grief is like a sneaker wave. The tide comes in, the tide goes out, and just when you think the worst is over, in comes another wall of water and it totally knocks you flat.
I haven’t yet had a day without tears. Rick meant far more to me than a “mere” five years can account for, and I am experiencing wave after wave of debilitating sorrow. Even while I was “away” on an alleged “vacation,” Rick was constantly in my heart and head.
This weekend, I don’t want to go to my friends’ house for a picnic—“we” did that last year. I don’t want to watch the fireworks from their yard—“we” watched them there last year. All I feel like doing is curling up with the fleece blanket he died beneath and howl—but I’ve already been doing that far too often.
I miss my Marine every single day—but especially on the holiday he loved so well.
