Six Years

I don't know how many times my heart has beaten since that day.  I don't know how many breaths I've taken.  I think back to those first few days.  Surreality doesn't even come close to describing what it was like when you left. As I write this, I'm sitting on the very bed that I last shared with you before you drowned.  I flicked your ear that night out of frustration that you wouldn't sleep.  You covered your little ear as tears welled in your eyes and you simply said, "I sorry," as you lied down and fell asleep against me.  I was exhausted from driving for two days straight.  It's been six years, and I hope you've forgiven me.  I hope you know that I loved you in past tense and I love you even more in present tense, because my love for you only grows deeper and wider as if you're still here.  I ran six miles for you on the 12th.  Each year, I run another mile for you.  One day you'll be gone fifty years, and I'll do fifty miles for you then.  Even if I'm hobbling on my arthritic knees and carrying my O2 tank with me, I will do a mile for each year that we've not been together.  

This year as I ran, I did a lot of reflecting on this time six years ago.  I remember a million people telling me a million stupid things but what I really needed, was someone to tell me a reason not to die.  Maybe somewhere along the way, someone said the very thing I needed to hear to keep going.  Or maybe it's that somewhere along the line, I found my strength.  Most days, I'm not strong.  Most days I carry myself through life a mere inch away from complete annihilation. But sometimes I'm strong, and I guess that's why I run.  I run for you.  I run to remind myself that the pain in my side and in my lungs are reminders that I'm still here, and that you're lifting me up.  I miss you, baby.  I miss everything about you and I fear that those little things I miss, are the very things that are disappearing from my memory.  But the love- that remains as clear as it ever was, as does the pain of not being with you.

I can only run on the treadmill anymore because I'm on strict orders from my immunologist to monitor my every step and continually monitor my heartrate along the way.  Besides that, it's hotter than hell outside.  Unfortunately, the treadmill odometer stops at a certain time, so I had to do this run in two segments.  That's why there's two pictures of two odometers.  But I promise, it was six miles.  Six miles for you.  That evening, our house was somber.  I hope you realize how much you're missed every minute of the day.  Maybe you worry that your three years are starting to become less significant, but I assure you, those three years changed us forever.  We all miss you more than tongue can tell.  Dad grilled burgers that night.  We made ice cream.  We tried to smile, but honestly, it was too hard.  Not that day.  Not the day after.  We miss you too much.

Keep helping us, Garrett.  I'm certain your help from the other side has contributed substantially to the fact that we're still breathing.  Still fighting.  Still winning.  Six years. It seems impossible that it's been that long.  I love you.