It's 9:30 on New Year's Eve and I'm already in bed. Jethro is beside me licking his paws, Abby is in the front window sill, and Hunter and Maggie are chasing each other around the house with great noise and gusto. For all you can tell by us, it's any other night in the year. And I wish it was - I'll be glad when this night is over.
Today a friend posted on Facebook that she wouldn't have anybody to kiss tonight at midnight. I realized that I would never again be kissed on New Year's Eve, and had to cry a little. It's strange - I've known since your death that I'd never be kissed again at any time by anyone, and I don't want to be. But when you move from the abstract of "never" to the particular of "New Year's Eve," it feels different. I remember all the New Year's Eves I spent with you and realize that it isn't that nobody will kiss me again as the ball goes down at Times Square; it's that you won't. Since we met, I haven't wanted any kisses but yours. I still don't, no matter how many guys hit on me.
I believe that tonight is giving me another loss to grieve - never bringing in another year with you. It's one more "never" in the unending list. At least it's one that I only think about once a year.
Once again, Tard says it best. Every year, every day, brings me closer to being with you again. So bring on the next year, and the next, and the next! No matter how hard this widow thing may be, I have one thing to look forward to. Hurry the day!
Love you forever and ever,