43

My love,

Today you are 43. 

Somehow, in the almost 11 months since your heart stopped beating, ours have continued on. We are here, doing our best to follow your instructions, to live life to the fullest. 

Last week I laid awake in bed at the lake watching videos on my phone, of your smile, of your voice, of your facial expressions. In one of the most precious of gifts, after you died, my brain quickly reverted to that version of you — that strong, expressive, smiling you — every time you pass through my thoughts, which is constantly. So constantly. 

Your name is the soundtrack to my life, running through my mind on a loop. At times a whisper, as if on a breeze. Other times louder, more pressing, on a gust of wind. Whatever the volume, it’s always there. 

You are always there, here, everywhere. 

Here at the lake, your slalom ski sits propped against the wall in the basement. This summer Willa popped up on her first try at skiing. You knew she would — she was so close last year. The boys are getting so close to dropping a ski. They pull themselves out of the wake and pause there to dip a hand in the water — just like you used to do. 

I see you here in everything because you brought me to this place. For me, there is no lake without you. 

You are the sunsets and the bonfires. You are the s’mores and the sparklers and the kids flying off the tube. You are early morning boat rides with a coffee and late night boat rides with a glass of wine. You are frappes at Johnson’s and fried shrimp and onion rings at Pop’s. You are lobsters drenched in butter and ice cream at Shibley’s and a walk on the pier. You are pizza at Nolan’s and iced coffees at Dunkin. 

You are bare feet in the grass and jumping off the dock. You are windows down during a drive along the winding New Hampshire roads, and the smell of the trees here after a rain. You are a thunderstorm sweeping across the lake and fog hanging in the mountains in the morning. 

You are the kids squealing with delight and playing wiffle ball in the yard and eating watermelon on the lake wall. You are hot dogs for lunch and Tito’s and soda on a booze cruise. 

You are a drive into Boston and the way my stomach flips when I remember that summer we met. You are the T and the city air and the North End and Fenway Park on a summer night. 

You are all of it, my love.

Every good and beautiful thing that I have and that I love, you are the reason why. When I fell in love with you, I fell in love with how you saw the world. That, I thought, that is what I have been searching for, that is how I want to be. I want to never take for granted seeing rowers on the Charles or a seaplane landing or a water skier slicing through the wake or the colors of the sunset. 

I want to be amazed by it all, just like you were. 

You are not here for me to hug today. You are not here to drive the boat and dump kids off the tube. You are not here to marvel at the beauty of this life, of this world we get to live in, but all of the best parts of you, somehow, live on — in me, in Cohen and in Willa, in your sister and in our niece and nephew. 

I long to sit outside and watch the sunset with you, but now you are the sunset. 

I long to stand in the cool grass by your side, but now you are the earth beneath my feet. 

I long to smell your skin, but now you are the fresh air filling my lungs. 

I long to reach out, beyond the veil, and touch my fingers to your face, but now you are the breeze on my own cheek.

You are nowhere to be found in this physical world, and, yet, you are everywhere. 

Of course that is true.

You were always, after all, larger than life.

Happy birthday, my love. 

I miss you. I miss you. I miss you.