Today is the last day of the last year that he was part of.
Twenty-five years of being a mother to three.
A family of five.
So many New Year’s Eves spent celebrating, dreaming, and looking ahead to what the next year would hold.
Now all I want is to stay in 2025—because he was here.
Because his life still touched this year.
The thought of time moving forward fills me with anxiety.
I’m afraid that the pieces of him I’m holding onto will slowly fade.
His dirty socks won’t be on the bathroom floor.
His loose change won’t be beside his bed.
The chairs outside won’t be stacked the way he left them.
The things he touched, the spaces he occupied, the evidence that he was here… they will slowly disappear.
And some days, it feels like I am disappearing right along with them