As the six month anniversary of her passing came upon me, I told myself that I would sit before this keyboard and write of how I felt — about what it’s like to have a friend of thirteen years ripped away without much of a warning.
But I can’t — I can’t decide if it’s because I lack the courage to write what I feel in my heart or if it’s because I still can’t put it into words.
Last night, I was sitting on the couch watching some television when I caught a faint movement out of the corner of my eye. It was a white object about the height of her ears would be if she was waltzing through the living room to join me on the couch.
But, of course, it wasn’t.
It was just a piece of paper being blown across the room from the fan.
There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t wonder where she is — even in bed sometimes, my mind tells me there’s a shuffling at the foot of the bed, and I’ll think it’s her cleaning.
And then I’ll remember that she’s gone.
I still mourn her.
I suppose that I always will.