Today is a month without Peter. A month ago, he died and with him, half of me, parts of our children, and all future plans with him. They all died. Killed in the crash that ended his life.
I wasn’t going to write anything today. I didn’t have much new to say. As you can read from the first paragraph, today I am in a similar state than I was the day and the week after Peter died. Maybe I never left it. Although, glimpses of me, my humor, my routines, and my conversations have been coming back. Then today happens and I’m pulled backward. Two steps forward, ten back.
There are so many things I have missed about Peter today. I miss having his input in decisions. Peter wasn’t controlling. He was a man in control. A huge difference. And I liked him being in control. I miss him being in control especially now that I feel so out of control. I miss security in my decisions. And, this past month, any decision I make reminds me of the absence of his wise counterpoints and of my life without him which tears up the core of me. Every. Single. Time. Because I miss him and his in control ways.
This month, I have missed our intimacy. I miss the hugs, the holding hands, the glances, the flirtatious texts and the nuzzles on the neck while I’m washing the dishes. I miss the being so near him while we watched TV, I could feel him and smell him. I miss the smirks, chuckles, giggles, and laughs over things we only understood. And yes, I miss the sex. We had a healthy sex life. It’s where we became one. I miss all of it, every single intimate moment. I miss.
In this past July without him, I miss the hearing of his footsteps upstairs. The sound of his ukelele while I watched TV. His voice, his gentle, soft voice, when he spoke about work, or one of his many adventures. I miss the sound of his laugh – the really hard one he had that made the butterflies dance in my stomach, especially when I was the one who coaxed it out of him. I miss the butterflies’ dance. How I wish he could be back with me and have them waltz again.
Since July first, I miss the look of him. I miss his crooked grin and the way lines wrinkled by his eyes when they caught his smile. I miss his lean body with a metabolism anyone would and did admire. I miss how he walked and how his knees sometimes knocked together. I miss how his hair salt and peppered over the years. I miss his strong Slovak chin and his corn silk eyelashes, barely noticeable unless you drew close enough. I miss the physical beauty of him, the one I want to see again.
In his past month, I miss my Renaissance man. The man who knew everything about everything, and nothing. I miss his knowledge of birds and electricity. His excitement when he spoke about something he just learned. The man who could bake a loaf of kickass sourdough bread, and how to take apart our central air conditioner’s compressor. I miss the man I could go to when my computer shut down, or my car’s engine light when on, or when the toilet wouldn’t flush. The man who read to learn, or watched YouTube for instructions. I miss the man who knew jazz, danced with the blues and sang heavy metal. I missed the unique, freaky unbelieve brain of his and all he stored in it.
On this day, a month after Peter died, I miss him and everything that was him…was us. I miss Peter. I miss half of me. And even though I didn’t feel like writing anything today because of my pain, and this may not be my strongest post, it was needed…for me.
My biggest fear in this nightmare is eventually I will not remember Peter. No, not forget him. I can’t do that. I look at my children, and all his family, and I see him. But I fear not remembering the feel of him, the look of him, the taste of him, the sound of him, the intelligence of him.
I hope when not remembering pelts at my brain like a bad hailstorm, I can open this post, even if wasn’t my strongest one and remember all over again. I can read my own historical remembrance of the man I loved and died today, one month ago.