I miss my girl today.
I miss her smile, her voice, her touch. I miss brushing her hair.
I miss the monotony of our morning routine. I miss helping her pee and dress and brush her teeth.
I used to hate the smell of the raspberry instant oatmeal she liked for breakfast. Today I try to remember it. I miss her. I miss the way she lived, always looking forward to what would come next. Even if next was just a trip to the grocery store, or a doctor appointment, or a bath.
She was easy and kind, and compliant. I miss that.
And I miss who I was with her. I miss caring for her. I miss researching cures and alternatives and possibilities.
I even sometimes miss the exhaustion of it all.
My rationale goes something like this: If I were breathing in the foul smell of the raspberry instant oatmeal, that would mean she’d be here with me – still.
If I were brushing her teeth and brushing her hair – that would mean she’d be here with me – still.
If I were searching for cures and alternatives and possibilities, that would mean that she’d be here with me – still.
But she’s not. And I miss her.
And yes, I know, that missing her allows me to somewhat misconstrue, maybe even glorify the things that were hard.
And yes, I know, that if she were here with me still, our days would be long, and probably our nights even longer.
And yes, I know, she’s pain-free now and she’s in a better place.
But I miss her; I miss her smile, I miss her voice, I miss her touch.
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