seventeen years {4/30/21}

I’m running out of pictures of you to share that haven’t already been used. Even the best ones I have are hazy, like the camera is trying to reach back through the fog of time. But no, this is just how photography was back then. Cardboard disposables. Early, pixilated digitals. Things were changing quickly, and there was so much we couldn’t clearly see.

It isn’t much different now. The photographs are sharper, but life is even harder to bring into focus. The thing is, all the passing years have taught me patience. Sometimes, a lot of times—right now, actually—everything seems clouded. But I know that, eventually, I’ll find the sharp edges of meaning. Or, more than likely, I’ll create them myself.

Of course I grieve for the fact that you didn’t get a chance to experience that. I grieve for all the things you didn’t get to experience: music you never heard or made, books you never read or wrote, loves you didn’t fall into, all the corners of the world you didn’t see. But mostly these days, I just miss you.

The ache sits in the center of my chest. It’s dull. It’s heavy. It catches my breath.

I hated this ache for so many years. I tried to ignore it. Avoid it. Bury it. Hide it. But today I know I can hold it. I can comfort it. I can let it soften me, even though it hurts.

I can let this grief stay blurry. Let the edges bleed.