"It doesn't seem impossible to turn back six months of time," a friend of yours says to me online while chatting at the six month mark.
It doesn't, I agree, because it feels possible to push back and prevent this from happening still.
I've been starting to teach Audrey about dates, because pretty much for a child, other than their routine and the steps that move them through one day and to the next, the world is still timeless. I made a small wooden block perpetual calendar for our kitchen table and we turn the blocks to the new date each morning. The thing is, she's stuck on January 10th. I was very proud when she said that on January 10th, but every morning, I ask her what number comes next, we change the number, and I repeat it- and then I ask her what today's date is one minute later and she has the same reply: January 10th! (enthusiastically).
I think there must be something to this- this difficulty in understanding the constraints of time and the systems we've set up to try to corral it into some order.
Your brother refers to "what happened last summer," in a recent email and the term "last summer," takes my breath away. I am appalled really by the distance in those two words. Time is ordered in just three long days for me now. Yesterday. (you died) Today. (I grieve for you) And tomorrow. (I hope to see you again)
This week, I wrote an email to you for the first time since you died.
Surprised myself when I went to check your account a week later and saw it.
"Just for a second, i want to believe you're alive and will receive this message.
just for a second, I wanted to type your name in the to: line of this email and feel the way I once did."