Seven years

I was in an odd mood last night. I’d had a great weekend – the weather was good on Saturday, and I’d been for my first run in five months, seen a friend and done some gardening. Then on Sunday, when it rained, my wife and I did chatted to a friend on line, did some sorting and got delivery of a gorgeous dresser for the sitting room. But Sunday night I was in a horrid mood. Scritchy. Irritable. Slept badly.
 
I’ve been aware of the approach of Tim’s anniversary all month. The beginning of February. The changes in the weather. The snowdrops. The ‘this time that year’. It all builds into the run up to the 24th. Somehow, last night, I’d forgotten it. But it appears that my body hadn’t.
 
It's seven years today that Tim died suddenly and unexpectedly in bed next to me, and as often happens for me, the run up has been harder than the day itself.
 
I'm a very different person now. More health anxiety for others. Fewer fucks to give. I understand how strong I can be, and I know how scarred I am.
 
My life now is a life I love. One so very different from the life I expected, planned for.
 
But I will always miss him.