I've lost track of time. They tell me it's been a week. For me, it feels like both yesterday and a year ago. Quite stupidly, I had assumed that the first day, when I saw them physically carry him out, was the worst. No, it wasn't. Now I know, shock is really your friend. It shields you from the actual monster that's set out to destroy your mind - grief.
It is the dementor that sucks all the joy and happiness out of your life and feeds on your deepest darkest moments. It tricks you into feeling better and then stabs you in the back, so you can feel the pain afresh each single time.
I can't explain why I'm so handling this so badly, though. Everyone around me, even people closest to him and me, have expressed their condolences and have resumed their lives. I'm still stuck here.
Unable to remember what it feels like to laugh. Or sleep. Or to function normally.
What people don't get is that it's not his passing, but his loss, that I don't know how to handle. The irreversible and permanent absence. When I see his glasses around, or his wornout wallet , or the novel he didn't get to finish, or the t-shirt that my mom had set out for him to wear on the last day - that's when it hits, they will never know his touch again.
But what kills me more than these constant reminders is the conspicuous absence of his big smile when I'd walk into his room every morning, or him waiting by the window when I came back from work, or the warm "good nights'' when I turned the lights out.
Grief. Reminding me every chance I get that there's no more him. That there will never be again. No one who will come close. No one for whom I will feel as much. No one who can ever give me the love, care or warmth such as his. That, from now on, I'm absolutely and unequivocally alone.