"Daddy, are you coming to my school today?"
"What's at school today?"
"It's my birthday."
Amy attended nearly every school function. Book day, skit day, parent lunch day, field trip chaperon day, and so on. Her part-time work arrangement allowed for flexibility and a level of work-life balance I just didn't have. For each boy's birthday she'd bring in cupcakes for the class for whatever celebration occurred.
So now we mark the passing of our first birthday without a wife; without a mother.
Last week I overheard a turn of phrase that I thought was curious. As I heard it a thought started rising in me. "Amy will find that curious. I can't wait to share it." That thought, still forming, was consumed by another thought: "Sorry. Can't do that. Amy's dead."
With each passing day, lingering remnants of a "past future" are snatched away. In vain, time applies that past future to an unwilling present. Each thread from the past future fabric stretches and tears, slowly rending from an emerging present.
Now I see my boys, of course, rending their time-fabric too.