Saturday, September 24, 2011 (4 months, 1 day)
Good morning, WillBilly,
This morning I woke early and went and crawled into your bed. It feels so … here I go again, bittersweet, to lie under your duvet and as I write this it occurs to me that all of my days seem to be measured by the number of “bittersweets” that it holds. Your room is a precious time capsule; everything preserved; your things placed just as you’d put them on May 22nd. Of course, I picked up the towel that you’d “placed” on your floor along with the dirty t-shirt and shorts that to this day I still can’t throw down the laundry chute. It’s not the right time yet and so they hang on your wall hooks; reminders of that day that started out so “ordinary”. The only thing moving are the blades on your ceiling fan and the up and down of my chest inhaling and exhaling and the tears that are spilling from heart, through my eyes and down my cheeks. I ran my hand through my hair and thought that your hair would have felt the same. And I wish more than anything that you were laying beside me and that we were reading a book together, taking turns reading out loud – you a page, me a page, (you looking ahead to see who’d get the shorter pages) like we used to.
Your bedroom, one of your favourite places (and still one of mine), is sacred to us, just as it was for you. It is a room full of WILL, full of you in every nook and cranny from the posters and pictures on the wall to all your things on the desk and makeshift night table, to your favourite stuffies lined up on top of your armoire, to the shelving unit that holds your sticker box, your ski helmet, your gloves and mitts, your ribbons, and trophies and medals and on and on. Your book report, completed the day of your accident still sits on your desk ready to have been handed in on the Tuesday after the long weekend. Those reminders are sad and difficult to look at and at the same time they remind me of the fragility of life, of how you can be here one minute and gone the next. It reminds me that life should be enjoyed moment to moment and so I try. But for now I cannot get out of your bed, I cannot put one foot in front of the other and so now I am sitting, propped up on your four fluffy pillows with my laptop on my lap writing you this letter; my daily love letter; my time with you. The chores I had planned, the yard work, the laundry, all can wait. … For right now I will live in this moment with you.
I miss you Will. More than anything and everything. And, so let’s just sit for a while longer, here in your bed… just you and me.
Love you like a bus,