They say the first year of loss is the hardest.
I wouldn’t know, I haven’t made it through the first year. All I can say for certain is that I am still struggling to breathe.
It’s Father’s Day on Sunday and for the first time in my life I will not be writing a poem or baking a cake or choosing a new shirt for the man who gave me everything.
Instead I will be trying to breathe. Trying to force enough air into my lungs to replace the overwhelming need to cry until they give out.
I don’t know where I will be Sunday. Maybe I will be well enough emotionally to visit the bench we dedicated to him at Duck Lake. Maybe I will find solace in cleaning his work room some more, running my hands over the tools he used over and over during his life. Maybe I will be in bed refusing to get up so I don’t have to face my first Father’s Day without my Dad.
All I know is this is still awful, I still hate it, and I’m not going to like it anytime soon.