William would have been 39 this Saturday.
He would have been, but he will never be.
He will never be 39, or 40, or 50. He will miss the experience of creaky joints, memory loss, gray hair, and cataracts. He will never watch his friends and family die of old age and sickness. He will not sit in a rocker in a nursing home with no one to visit him. He will not yell at kids to get off of his lawn or wear his pants up to his ribcage or develope an intolerance to spicy food. He will not complain about politicians or argue about politics or religion ever again.
He will never have to deal with the crushing loss of having your best friend, your husband, your support and conspirator die. He won't know what it feels like when the other half of your spirit is gone, how hard it is to get up in the morning, how hard it sometimes is to just breathe. He won't lie awake at night asking pointless questions to which there is no answer, with his mind running in circles like a gerbil on a wheel, endlessly. He doesn't blame everyone - doctors, family, friends, self - for not fixing him. He won't have to pay bills, go to the doctor, argue with his wife or mow the lawn ever again.
He won't have to deal with any of that anymore.
But he'll also miss Christmas. And Halloween. And birthdays. He won't be there for the births of nieces and nephews. He won't father his own children, or be a grandfather. He'll be absent at summer BBQ's, camping trips and fishing at the lake. He can't laugh at new movies, or go to concerts, or read new books. He's missing the final Harry Potter movie. He will never sleep late on a winter morning or take an afternoon nap on the couch with his wife. He doesn't hear how loved he was or how much his friends and family think about him. He can't play fetch with his dog anymore.
But all of these things still happen. The sun keeps coming up every day. The seasons keep changing. We keep getting older. The world refuses to stop and acknowledge that William is gone.
I miss my friend. I miss my husband.
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