I lost you that night when Pete walked onto our porch and into our home. He was our neighbour. He was our fire chief. That night he brought death into our home.
I lost you the next morning when I woke and you weren't there. Sunrise. The world kept turning even though my heart was broken.
I lost you again when I stood with your best friend and my best friend at the funeral home. Eyes closed, draped in a green blanket, nothing left but the body you used to wear.
I lost you that Friday evening when our loved ones gathered to celebrate you. Stories and prayers and laughter and snacks. And so many hugs.
I lost you again the day I walked through the grocery store and stared at the peanut butter frosting you requested on your last birthday cake.
I lost you again when I drove by the sign on the side of the road that says "115 traffic deaths this year in NH. One is too many."
I lost you again when your sister cleaned the closet and pulled your boots out and left them in the middle of the kitchen. What do we do with them? Put them back in the closet because I'm not ready to let go.
I lost you again when I drove by the death spot and I saw all the red debris from your car poking out of the melting snow.
.
I lost you again when I went to the death spot to clean up the debris. My friends driving by stopped to help. I kicked a hubcap frozen in the snow and cried.
I lost you again when I listened to one of your best friend's little brother talking to his friends. Your tone, your expressions, coming out of someone else's mouth. Not you.
I lost you again when I made your favourite pulled pork dinner for your birthday and you weren't there to eat it.
I lost you again when I ate birthday cake on the morning of the death day, just like you did. One year, and then two and then three and four.
I lost you again when I refused to eat birthday cake on the morning of the death day. Year five. Maybe if I don't eat cake it will have all been a bad dream. But I didn't wake up.
I lost you again when your brother got married and you weren't there. A smiling face in a frame does not make up for your loss.
I lost you again when I moved out of the last house we shared. I'll never again hear your heavy tread going up the stairs late at night. I feel like I betrayed you by leaving.
I lost you again the day I found your hair brush. Walking around hugging it. You, your DNA lives on in that hair brush. I saved it. Still.
I lost you again the day a teenage boy crashed his car in front of me in a snow storm. You, not you, spinning out of control.
I lost you again and again and again. Every time I see Pete. Every time I drive by a car accident with flashing emergency lights. Every time there is a snow storm. Every birthday, Thanksgiving, Christmas. Every family picture. There is this gaping hole, an aching wound that doesn't heal.
I was looking at old pictures and there we were, my sister and I with our first born babies. Wouldn't it be nice to recreate that photo I thought. And then it hit me and took my breath away. I lost you, again.
It does not get easier.
I did not just lose you that Monday night. I have lost you on hundreds of days in millions of ways.
