The year had been hazy. Despite the crystal clear skies and warm breezes of the High Desert, for twelve months my mind had been lost in a thick gray fog.
It’s an odd thing, to lose one’s way. I’d hop in the car and get to my destination without an issue, but wouldn’t remember the drive. I’d walk the same streets, talk to the same people and take care of my responsibilities, but I couldn’t get a hold of my life. My joy was gone. My peace of mind had vanished. My heart was numb. My attention span vanquished.
I’d lost my way.
The first year of grief is different for everyone. The first birthday, the first day of school, the first thanksgiving, a special day that maybe only the two of you had celebrated unbeknownst to the rest of the world.
Each day presses you down a little harder. The frustration and devastation of their absence hits you with a force so strong it’s as though your very soul has been sucked out of you. In the aftermath, you find yourself sprawled out amongst the broken pieces of your life “before”. The path you had been walking together now seems impossible, wrong even, to continue on alone. You must find a new way in this “after” life.
The first year was agonizing at best. I lost my way. But slowly, very slowly, a clearing opened in the hedgeways of my grief and I found a way to keep going. It still feels wrong, walking it without you. I don’t know that it will ever feel right. More than one life had been lost on that sunny summer morning, but I think mine is finally coming back to me.