Three years later

It's June 10th and I can see our wedding anniversary staring at me. June 15th.
The number looks me in the eyes, so symbolic for our wedding, for our fight, for our lives and our deaths.
I am trying to get some sleep when the flashbacks come. I haven't had so many in a while. It's like they are trying to piece our story together because still, somehow, it does not make sense. So the memories come in reverse. So I can relive that June 15th. And just smile.

-
It's been over a year since you died. My face has different lines now, from all the crying. The bags under my eyes are darker. I am no longer brute force. I have died, and I have grown into something different and new.
But the past is still a haunted house of flashbacks and nightmares.

-

The first one is always your funeral. It is usually my scream when I came through the door and launched myself over your body. The image is blurred, but I can still hear myself howling in pain next to you. Your face, so familiar, was cold and pale and covered with a white veil.
I took the veil off in the hope of removing death itself from the room. I kissed your face and it was cold and it was bruised, so I kept on kissing and praying and smoothing what was left of your hair and your beard. Every kiss a loving landmark. Every tear a drop of the cure I couldn't give you. Every move, every effort, every breath - all to keep us from dying.
But we died, my Fer.  And I can't wait for us to come back to life anymore.

-

The second ones are usually in the hospital.
The hospital was not a happy place, we know that. The monitor beeping faster because you had a fever. My eyes twitching, seeing double.
The night you were diagnosed and the 36 hours I spent awake on an empty stomach, because I could not stop vomiting.

But also... your eyes. They never stopped shining. In all your anger, all your fear, all your frustration, not once you looked at me without love in your eyes. And as if your eyes were not enough, there was always your voice - sometimes sober, sometimes weak, sometimes completely drugged, sometimes in pain, sometimes sitting on a chair proudly for being able to sit, - always telling me how glad you were to see me. You would just look at me, smile and say "I am so happy you are here, my queen.". Even if I had never left.

-

As I write a last text talking to you, Fer, I remember us.
We were two dorks.
We were the dynamic duo.
We were the best team.
I remember pretending to be on a race in the hospital while taking you outside in a wheelchair.
Your giggles resonated like bells through the pale corridors, ignoring the frowned faces
I kept going faster and you held on to your hat, laughing
As if to keep it on your head, as of we were pilots, as if the hospital was our stage
I remember the day a flutist showed up in the ICU and you asked me to sing the theme song of Aladdin for you - the same we sang together while we graded our students' exams.
The moments are like paint in a bucket, slowly mixing and melting within one another. There's sorrow and pain and laughter and so much love.
But alas, the past is still the past.

-

When we lived together, we would binge watch series on Netflix and eat popcorn
You loved popcorn. You could eat it at any time and any day.
I'm telling you these facts about yourself because maybe you don't remember them. Or maybe because you are gone and I want you to be back.
I want my best friend back.
I want our inside jokes and our weird karaoke nights and the way we laughed together histerically on your last birthday because we had to scream at each other from across the huge rooms of the flat I got.
I want to look next to me and see you, extending your arm and preparing a loud giggle. I want to watch Grey's Anatomy and Buffy The Vampire Slayer with you again, and laugh at the fact that you got emotionally involved with these series just like I did.
I want to see you wide eyed because our room is surrounded by the ocean and all you can see from the big windows is an infinity of blue
I want to get high with you once more and overanalyze things just to forget it the next day
Ever since you left, there is a small part of me that has been isolated. It can't relate to anyone or be understood by anyone.
It does not belong without you.

-

If you were alive
Oh we would be scheming
Knowingly competing to get the best wedding anniversary present
Oh I would set us a beautiful breakfast table
And I would give you wild flowers because they are your favorites
Oh I would love you, and I would love you well
But I could never promise to save you.

-

They say it takes around 2 years to overcome grief. It hasn't been 2 years yet.

They also say that it is a good sign if you can tell the story without crying. I usually tell our story without much emotion. It happened. It sucked. It was hard. End of the story.

You see, I am a storyteller. I know how to tell stories. But I still don't know how to live completely without your presence in the world, Fer - everytime I watch us, or write about us or remember our time together, I cry.
Because I miss you. Because we were happy.

You were happy. That is my solace.

I couldn't save you. There are still days in which I think I should be the dead one. There are days in which I can't recognize myself.

But there are always days, Fer.

I kept my promise, I am living a good life.

You have become some sort of guardian angel, imaginary friend, unintentional guarding my cage of grief. The thing is: you never locked the cage. It's been open all along.

And I am still to become, my dearest friend. So watch over me if you can, touch my hair, give me the power of premonition that only you could grant me. Walk beside me, if you don't mind. I will join you soon, I promise you won't even notice.

Until then, my beloved boy, I will live.

I will become. I will let my light outshine the shadows of my haunted memory.

I will be the best Dani I possibly can.

-

I miss you. It's true.
But you don't have to worry, I will be fine.
I am loved by a man the way you thought I deserved.
I see Grandma everyday and we talk about you.
Our pets are living their best life.
It's okay, Fer. You can go now.

We will be okay. And we will be good.

-

Until the next life,

Love, always

D.