One

One. I made it through one day. That means I can do it again. I can make through two days. But first I have to sleep. First I have to make it through the night. Nights are rough. My mind wanders. It remembers the nights from before. It remembers our routine. The absurd ride home as Rich would torment me with his games: trying to honk the horn; putting his hand on my face; asking, “Are we there yet?” Then making dinner as Rich would tinker in the garage and periodically come inside to proclaim, “I’m starving! I haven’t ate all day!” as he would steal food out of the pan. We would eat dinner in bed usually. As we ate we would put on a show or one of Rich’s conspiracy theory channels. We would talk about anything and everything or sometimes he would just yell, “Your Butt!” at me. Most nights with him were ridiculous and wonderful. On the nights when he would go back out to the garage, I would desperately try to stay up until he came back inside. More time with him was worth losing some sleep. Most nights it feels like he’s still there. If I were to get up and wander out to the garage I’d find him in there working away. I could hug him and kiss him and tease him to get him to come to bed. But when I look out the window I see that it’s dark. The garage is closed. There is no goofy boy waiting for me to lure him inside. Instead it’s just me telling myself, “One, you did it once you can do it again.”