Little Things

Eight months later, I'm thinking of him as much as ever. As much as when he was here, as much as just after he left. 

I walk by Subway, his favorite meal out. I remember the covid months when there was a "Now Hiring" sign in the window and I hoped it would be his first job.  

I pass the frozen pizza case at Costco, or the pallet of apple juice. I pause, internally reaching to load my cart with his favorites. 

We go out for a walk and I pass the church parking lot where I took him for his first driving lesson. I remember how he grinned and chuckled when I suggested it would be better not to run into the lone light pole in the middle of the empty lot. I captured that grin, the last photo I have of pure authentic joy. 

I see kids on their way to the high school and wish he was with them.

The career tech building where he went for the program he loved is on the way to the water. I hoped it would save him. 

The two lane road where he practiced lane changes, again and again.

I come across a game or a meal or an activity I think he might enjoy. I plan to tell him about it, but remind myself that he probably won't be interested. I think maybe he'll do it for me. Maybe he'll find that he likes it. And then I remember it's too late.

The sadness hits, the moment passes, I blink and swallow and come back to normal, those these moments are normal too. 

There is nothing to say, nothing to do. I won't want to stop remembering or feeling what I feel. It's simply a part of the day, today, yesterday, tomorrow, and how many tomorrow's to come? 

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