When someone close dies, it takes a long time to realize all the different ways you have lost.
Last night we celebrated Yalda, the longest night. We had friends over like we have for the past two years, only this year, he wasn’t here. I was glad I wasn’t going to be alone and that we could continue this slow down celebration right before Christmas. I worked on accepting the fact that I wouldn’t make it quite as pretty as he would and that the house wouldn’t be quite as clean. I think he’d understand. He cared about those things, but ultimately, he’d understand.
Great friends came over and it was delightful watching everyone interact and Zoya fully enjoy everything, including becoming reacquainted for her old love of watermelon.
I stepped out a few times and talked to his picture, but managed to be fairly present.
And then everyone left and I went to bed alone, unable to talk to him about all that was said and done. We couldn’t discuss Zoya, or our friends, or the food, or how we felt about the night.
The tears sneaked up on me. I was feeling joyful, thinking that he was witnessing us carrying on with friends in things we learned from him. Then it was over and HE WAS GONE. I have a lot of friends and family that are helping me through, but those clean-up, bedtime conversation are gone. That joy that I found when we did something that brought him joy, felt gone. I couldn’t see it in his eyes. I couldn’t hear his words.