Eight weeks ago, I kissed Jason for the last time. Eight weeks ago, I heard Jason laugh for the last time. Eight weeks ago, I woke up next to Jason for the last time.
Eight weeks ago the center of my world dropped away.
Eight weeks isn’t very long. It isn’t long enough to break a habit. I still reach for Jason in my sleep, I still expect him as I walk in the door. I still look at unicorns and T-rexes with an eye to whether Jason needs to see it (the answer to that is always yes).
I’m trying to understand what my new normal is. Grief has become the baseline of my life. I can hear it constantly, it sets the rhythm and pace of my day-to-day existence. But there are other parts to the song, and some of them look like joy and others taste like love. My new normal is sleeping at my mother’s house. My new normal is crying in public. My new normal is death certificates and legal paperwork and memorial efforts.
Finding my footing in this new world is like standing through an earthquake. Each day brings new tremors and leaves behind new topography. Most of that topography has sharp edges. If my hands bore the signs of each stumble, I’d wear bandages to my elbows. This ever-shifting landscape with its undercurrent of grief has become my new normal.
Eight weeks isn’t long enough to build a new habit. I still reach for my phone to message him. I still hoard stories from my day to tell him in the evening. I still look forward to seeing him when I come home.
Eight weeks has been an eternity.