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.
I’m not exactly vowing to get vengeance against everyone celebrating their happy holiday butts off but despite the myriad of shiny lights I’ve put up and the carefully thought out gifts I’ve purchased I kind of just want to crawl into bed and stay there until New Year’s.
Some of that is because it’s cold and wintery and my body gets extra hurty when it’s cold and wintery.
Some of that is because my kids are with their dad this year until tomorrow so it won’t feel like a holiday until they get here. However some of it might be the fact that they are older.
No one is excitedly looking for me to put dinosaurs in strange situations throughout the holiday month. No one needed me to take them holiday shopping. There were no long days driving around for the perfect gift, sipping Starbucks and discussing what their Dad would like or what to get their friends.
There are no footy-jammied legs getting too excited and needing to be hauled upstairs for a nap or snuck a stocking stuffer in advance. No gingerbread houses, no Christmas cookies.
There’s only me, putting up the lights, picking out the gifts, wrapping the boxes, sticking them under the tree.
So I feel a little like the Grinch this year. It all seems a bit lackluster.