Eight years ago, I said goodbye to my husband, my best friend, and the calm to my chaos.
It still feels impossible that eight years have passed since I last held his hand. Some days, it feels like eight years. Other days, eight months.
And sometimes, eight days.
That’s the strange thing about grief. Time moves forward, whether we’re ready or not, but grief doesn’t follow a calendar. It has no interest in anniversaries or how many years have passed. It can sit quietly in the background, and then, without warning, a song, a photograph, a familiar saying, or a memory can bring everything rushing back.
These past eight years have taught me how to carry grief while still making room for laughter, joy, gratitude, family, friends, and new memories.
I have learned that moving forward does not mean leaving someone behind.
David is still part of my life.
He is in the stories we tell, the memories we share, and the laughter that comes when I remember the many moments that made up our life together.
I still miss the man who loved my “Lucy” moments.
The man who tolerated my off-key Beatles singalongs while I confidently butchered lyrics and, I’m sure, had the good sense to know that correcting me would accomplish absolutely nothing.
The man who could calm my chaos.
The man who somehow always made me feel special.
I miss his voice.
I miss his laughter.
I miss the ordinary moments that, looking back, were never ordinary at all.
That is another thing grief has taught me: some of the greatest moments of a life together are tucked inside the everyday things we barely notice at the time.
David left behind a legacy of love, kindness, faith, laughter, and memories that continue to surround all of us who loved him.
While I would give anything to hear his voice and his laughter again, I am grateful for every moment we shared. I am grateful for the adventures, the laughter, the challenges we faced together, and the love that death could never erase.
Eight years later, I still miss him.
I always will.
But I also carry him with me—in my heart, in my memories, and in the life and love we shared.
And today, because grief and laughter have always managed to coexist in my world, I like to think David is in Heaven enjoying a few butter tarts with my brother.
Knowing those two, I hope someone thought to bring plenty of extra tarts.
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